Chuck vs the You Know Him Too? Job
by Ostrich on a Rampage
Summary: When Mozzie goes missing, Neal Caffrey has no other option but to turn to his old friend, Chuck Bartowski for help. But as the mystery grows more convoluted, friends of friends must be called upon to bring Mozzie home. And, probably save the world, but that's no biggie, right?
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story is a crossover involving White Collar, Chuck, Leverage, and Royal Pains. I own none of these shows. And you don't need to have seen any of them to understand what is going on. At the beginning of each chapter where a new character is introduced, I'll give the basic character info you need to understand the story. Feel free to skip this part and get to the story (it's what I'd do).

Neal Caffrey: Art thief that has recently been working for the FBI as a confidential informant.

Mozzie: Neal's best friend and partner in crime. Loves conspiracy theories and wine.

Peter Burke: Neal's FBI handler and close friend.

Diana and Jones: Fellow FBI agents.

Chuck Bartowski: Computer nerd turned spy. Recently married to Sarah.

John Casey: Big, buff, scary dude. Likes guns. A lot. He's been working with Sarah and Chuck for a long time.

Sarah Bartowski: Spy that helped train Chuck along with Casey. Now married to him. Lost all her memories.

Read on, fellow readers.

-break-

New York was the best. Simply, the best. Neal Caffrey had no words other than those. He and Peter Burke had just finished up a case involving $2 million missing unmarked bills. Truly, it had been pure and simple luck that Neal had even stumbled upon the forged Van Gogh, which had led them to the man guilty of forging said unmarked bills. It was quite the coincidence that the unmarked bills had that strange similarity to Van Gogh's Sunflower background. Neal could only thank his lucky stars that he'd caught the lackadaisical design. Luck and Mozzie's affinity for aged wine. Neal shook his head, smiling a bit. That had been one of their more awkward situations, with Mozzie donning a wig and faking a Nigerian accent, all while Neal had to cart out the Van Gogh disguised as an old, overused coffee table. He'd have to tell Peter and El that story at the next dinner. Of course, Peter hadn't shown up until the Van Gogh was safely in Mozzie's warehouse and the money conspicuously in sight. That story, minus the stolen painting, would surely entertain the Burkes.

Neal had invited Mozzie over that night for a celebratory wine tasting, so he wasn't too surprised to find his door unlocked. Mozzie didn't have to stick around after the job while Jones and Diana teased him about that coincidental moment when some wayward breeze flipped his hat off his head, carrying the Fedora into a nearby fountain. Which of course distracted Neal enough to allow the bad guy to slip past him. Good thing Peter was there, gun drawn, brows furrowed. Just as an FBI agent should look, while fighting crime. And really, it's not as if Neal could control the wind. What would Jones have done in that situation? Or Diana? The exact same thing, thank you very much. Besides, Neal knew that Peter'd have his back. Which was exactly why he had stopped the chase to fish his beloved, now sopping wet, hat out of the blasted fountain.

"Moz, I got a bottle back from the 1800s. You get to guess where I stole it from. Your only clue is Monroe." Silence. But Neal wasn't miffed, figuring that Neal had either caught Mozzie mid-sip, or the conspiratist was puzzling of Neal's clue. He had had to make it difficult; Mozzie was able to remember everything thanks to that photographic memory of his. But silence remained Neal's sole companion. "Moz?"

Still no answer. Maybe he hasn't arrived yet, Neal thought, setting the bottle on the counter and reaching for two wine glasses. The door had been unlocked, though. Neal began to worry a bit. Mozzie should be here. Right? Neal shrugged his worry off. It was perfectly possible that Mozzie was talking to June downstairs. Or… Or doing some other Mozzie sort of thing. It made sense, Neal tried to convince himself.

Turning to place the twin glasses on the table, a scrap of paper caught Neal's eye. Clues like this rarely ever slipped past his sharp gaze, but Neal must have missed it while he was putting the wine down. Neal reached across, grabbing the thin paper in his nimble fingers. Moz had probably just gone out to get some wine or cheese or maybe one of those awful poker movies he liked; that's all the note would explain. That's all Neal hoped the note would explain.

Neal shouldn't have gotten his hopes up, for when was his life ever that simple or straightforward? The note wasn't in Moz's familiar scrawl, but in some foreign, blocky handwriting. "Our dear Moz's assistance is required," the note read, "so don't even consider searching for him. Fair warning, though, your illustrious Mozart can be replaced, so we will not hesitate to kill him, should you contact your Federal friends. Our men are everywhere, watching you, watching Mr. Burke. Should our commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination shall occur to your dear friend. TTFN."

Neal clenched and unclenched his fists, crinkling the infamous note in his anger. These men, were they even men? Neal had no idea who he was dealing with, who Mozzie was dealing with. And he couldn't just not do anything. He had to help Moz.

His fingers had flown across his phone, dialing Peter's number out of nervous habit, but Neal forced himself to end the call. He couldn't put Moz in anymore danger than he already was in. No contacting Peter, no matter how much Neal ached to talk to his older friend. Mozzie mattered too much to even consider sharing any of this with Peter. Peter would stay safely out of the loop and Moz would stay safely (was he even safe? Alive? No, Neal quickly pushed those thoughts away; they said they needed him, right? Which implies they need him alive. Hopefully…) in the hands of his captors.

But Neal knew that he couldn't do this on his own. And there was really only one person he could go to. With a sigh, Neal sank into a chair. Why did life have to be so difficult? Why couldn't the dead just stay dead?

-break-

Chuck Bartowski, computer extraordinaire. Super-secret-awesome spy in his spare time. Life had dealt Chuck a good hand. What had appeared to be a row of cruddy fours had turned out to be a stack of aces, when he had bothered to actually look at the cards. Aces, Charles. His father had known it all along. Now his life was going perfectly. Sarah hadn't remembered anything, actually, but she had fallen in love with Chuck as he told her their story: the story of a nobody employee of the Buy More, a reject from Stanford. An accidental spy. The relationship hadn't been all peaches and cream, but now they would be renew their vows in a few months, at which time they would close Carmichael's spy business for good. Casey was already itching to go do something heroic, especially if it involved Gertrude, Chuck could tell, only sticking around for his daughter, Alex. But she and Morgan were taking care of each other, working through ever relationship issue in the book: toothpaste to wine, takeout to covers. It surprised Chuck, but it seemed as if his little buddy was finally going to settle down.

So, yeah, he was still at the Buy More, but after their re-honeymoon, Chuck and Sarah were planning on finding a new place, plenty far from the Buy More and all of Chuck's bittersweet memories there. They would finally have their own life. They would finally be their own people. No more secrets, no more spies.

Not that Chuck's life was ever that simple.

It was one of those sunny days where the sky is perfectly, wondrously clear and while it should be hot, it isn't. A miracle in and of itself. Chuck was beginning to believe that the only true miracles were days like these, when everything was beautiful and nothing was there to shatter the crystal-clear beauty.

He got a call, which wasn't out of the ordinary. And it was requesting a computer be fixed, which also wasn't out of the ordinary. And Jeff and Lester claimed to be too busy to go onsite, which definitely wasn't out of the ordinary. But seeing a ghost? Yeah, that is out of the ordinary.

Chuck stopped short, the query about the computer dying on his lips. Bryce Larkin was dead. He had seen him die. Bryce was dead. Then how in the world was he standing right here in front of Chuck? Please explain how that could be possible beyond the realm of fiction.

"I know, I know, you deserve an explanation, but I really don't have time. Chuck, I need your help."

This so was not happening. Bryce's ghost was not talking to him. He was not seeing anything. In fact, he was leaving right now. He was going to leave this freakin' haunted parking garage. He should have known better anyway; who needs their computer fixed in a deserted parking garage, not that he'd known it would be deserted, but you know what, this is beside the point. The point being that he needed to fix his idiotic mistake and get away from the ghost before it worked it's ghost-y powers and sucked the soul from him, or whatever the crap ghosts did.

Chuck slowly began to edge away, causing Bryce's ghost to reach out pleadingly. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't truly need you, Chuck. But, you're the only person I have to turn to. The only one. You're my last option."

"Don't go all Leia on me," Chuck muttered, half in shock that he was talking to a man that, by all means, was supposed to be dead. He was going crazy. The only possible explanation: dementia. And at such a young age, too.

Now Bryce just looked confused. (Not a ghost. Couldn't be a ghost. Too real to be a ghost. Bryce? Alive?) "What?"

"You know, Leia from Star Wars?" Great. He was making small talk with a not-ghost, definitely alive ex-best friend. "She came to Obi Wan Kenobi for help. He was her last hope," Chuck explained, emphasizing the last two words.

Bryce smiled and Chuck knew it was his friend, that Bryce really wasn't dead. Couldn't be. But then how—"You're so not Obi Wan. I'd peg you for Luke Skywalker. You are the flailing hero that needs his butt saved over and over again."

"Does that make Casey Han Solo?"

"Not if it means I have to end up with him." Bryce's smile quickly faded. "Chuck, I don't have time for this banter. I need your help. Now."

"I can't do this. I thought you were dead, Bryce."

Bryce winced. "Neal," he muttered.

"Chuck," Chuck corrected. How had Bryce forgotten his name? Sure it had been a couple years, but he had never forgotten Bryce.

With a small grin, Bryce explained, "My name is Neal. Neal Caffrey."

Now Chuck was truly confused. "Uh, no, I'm pretty sure it's Bryce Larkin."

"Bryce Larkin is dead."

"Strangely, I've been trying to convince myself of the exact same fact. But, your presence is sort of screwing with everything I once knew. Or thought I knew."

Bryce or Neal or whoever the heck he was grinned slightly. "I got too far into the Ring, as I'm sure you can recall. It wasn't safe for me anymore. So, General Beckman arranged for my death and gave me a new name, a new identity. And I took it. At the beginning, I missed you all. Not really Casey, but you and Sarah. But, I started my new life. I made friends. I was fitting in and it was feeling so much more right than being a spy had ever felt."

"What kind of life?" Chuck asked.

"Art thief."

Chuck's eyebrows arched suddenly. "Oh?" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "That sounds… illegal."

Neal or Bryce choked back a small bark of laughter. "It is. Moz and I, we—" He cut off suddenly, before repeating more urgently, "I need your help, Chuck."

"Don't do it." The stern words echoed across the empty silence if the parking garage.

"Really?" Chuck exclaimed. "You followed me? You'd think by now you'd trust in my abilities."

Ignoring Chuck's comment, a stern John Casey stepped out from behind a pillar, his gun trained on Bryce's heart. No, wait, Neal's heart. "I thought you were dead."

"And I thought we had gotten past the point in our relationship where you shoot me every time you see me. Turns out we were both wrong." Neal lifted his hands above his head obligingly. Moz couldn't be helped if he were bleeding out on the parking garage floor.

"Casey, stand down until we completely assess the situation." Sarah stepped out, her gun pointed at the floor, but still ready to whip up and end a life if necessary.

"Good to see you again, Sarah," Neal murmured, flashing her his most winning smile.

Sarah turned to Chuck in confusion. "Do I know him?"

Neal's smile had never faded faster. "Don't you remember me?"

"She doesn't remember much of anything," Casey explained, not bothering to hide his amusement at Neal's obvious discomfort and confusion.

"What happened?"

Chuck shrugged. "Let's just say that the Intersect turned on us. All of us…"

"Sarah had the Intersect?"

"And Morgan," Chuck added.

Neal shook his head, bewildered. "The small bearded fellow? Why?"

"Wasn't his choice. Anyway, that's all over with," Chuck muttered, brushing that conversation to the side. He didn't feel like rehashing that entire experience to bate Neal's natural curiosity. "Can you elaborate on why you need our help? I thought you said you had friends. Can't they help you?"

Neal laughed bitterly. "That's half the issue. Or, I suppose, the main issue. My best friend, Moz, was abducted. And I can't turn to the police, which is why I can't talk to my other best friend, Peter."

"He's police?" Casey asked.

"FBI, but I'm pretty sure that Moz's abductors aren't going to see that as any more favorable than regular old black and whites."

Chuck sighed slightly before asking, "Neal, how could you come to us? We haven't talked in years. I thought you were dead."

"Because I knew you could and would help." Neal looked at Chuck, that fervent look nearly making his eyes glow.

"I can't," Chuck admitted.

"Or you won't," Neal countered angrily. Chuck opened his mouth to argue, but Neal lifted his hand, cutting Chuck off before he'd begun. "You know what, never mind. I don't know why I thought you would help. Apparently, we've both changed over the years. Some for the worst. Good bye, Chuck."

After Neal had walked off, Chuck turned to Casey. "Did I make the right decision?"

"If you had helped him, we would have been pulled into something far greater than we could imagine. Come on, before Jeff and Lester burn down the Buy More.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey, ya'll. So, you'll probably be proud to know that I'm getting a better hang at publishing stuff on here (AKA I now know how to use that horizontal line thingy. Who would've thought that'd completely escape my attention last week?) Normally, I'll be updating every Tuesday, but I had some extra time, so I thought, what the heck, just give 'em the next chapter. So here it is. I've got most of this written out, but if you are looking for a particular scene, just ask. I'll try to fit it in.**

 **Morgan Grimes: Chuck's best friend that works at the Buy More with him. Also works with Chuck on their freelance spy team, Carmichael Industries.**

* * *

"He must have been truly desperate to come to us…"

Morgan Grimes looked up at his best friend, ignoring the phone he had been fiddling with. "Now don't go all God of Mischief on me, Chuck."

Chuck glanced at his friend in confusion, being pulled from his reminiscent thoughts. "Huh? I don't—"

"Don't tell me you haven't seen—" Morgan cut himself off with a snort of disbelief, shaking his head just enough to make his dark brown hair shift across his forehead. "Next Saturday. You, me, Chris Hemsworth. We need to rectify this. Now, what's been bothering you?"

Chuck shrugged. "It's nothing, really."

Morgan scoffed. "I'm not stupid, you know. Sarah was here earlier and you didn't even glance at her butt. Something's definitely up."

"Remember Bryce Larkin?"

"Your traitorous best friend who actually was a spy and then died but didn't die but then did die. That Bryce Larkin?"

"No, my traitorous best friend who actually was a spy and then died but didn't die but then died but didn't die. That Bryce Larkin."

Morgan gave Chuck a weird look. "What do you mean 'didn't die.'"

"Don't you remember? He wasn't dead and all the newspapers were wrong and the Ring was after—"

"Yes, yes, of course I remember you telling me that. I meant the second 'didn't die.'"

"Oh, yeah. By that I mean that I was talking to him, face to face, only an hour ago."

Morgan let the phone slip from his fingers, running his hand through his beard. "Wow. I mean, wow. What does it take to kill that man?"

Casey happened to walk by at that moment. "I could shoot him a few more times. Third time's the charm," Casey suggested, brandishing his barcode scanner threateningly.

"Uh, no thanks…" Chuck muttered. Turning back to Morgan, he continued, "He asked me for help."

"Don't tell me you're actually considering his plea," Casey growled.

Chuck gave his coworker and friend a pointed look. "Don't you have customers to help?" Casey grunted, but walked away, his barcode scanner held way too familiarly for comfort.

"I swear he's going to shoot us one of these days," Morgan muttered, before directing his attention back on his friend. "Help with what?"

"His friend was abducted. He was asking me to help… get him back, I suppose."

"Is this some sort of Carmichael job? Or is he just coming to you as a friend in need?"

Chuck sighed. "That's the hard part. He's coming as a friend. But after all he's put me through, I don't think I can just jump up and help him. All the lies and all the deception… Can I even trust him anymore?"

"Wouldn't you want him to help you, if I were abducted?"

Chuck rolled his eyes. "I have Casey for situations like that."

"Yeah, well, Bryce probably doesn't have a Casey of his own. Maybe we should loan ours out." Morgan's brows furrowed in thought. "That's not a bad idea. It would probably end up being very lucrative, you know. Normal people need Caseys in all sorts of situations. I mean, what if you need to transport illegal goods. Or want to steal something. Or need a man to-"

Casey interrupted, "I'm not some doll that's passed from whiny girl to whiny girl."

"But you'd profit from it, too!" Morgan exclaimed. "Not only could you knock some baddies' heads together, but you get paid. I think you'd like it."

Before Casey could knock Morgan's head, Chuck spoke up. "I think Carmichael Industries just took on a new job.

* * *

Neal Caffrey stared at the sign above him. Perhaps if he wished hard enough, the bleak news would change in his favor. Neal sighed, turning away. He knew that wouldn't happen. Apparently luck was not in his favor. His plan was delayed. And Neal needed to get back to New York; the longer he was gone, the more danger his best friend was in.

Really, Neal had no idea why he had thought Chuck would help him. Chuck was right. It had been years. He was stupid to think that his ex-best friend hadn't changed. Neal had changed, so why shouldn't Chuck have? Chuck was happy, it seemed. Neal had no right to ruin that happiness with his own problems. He had no right to hurl the truth about his "death" at Chuck.

And now he couldn't get back to New York. This whole trip was turning out to be a colossal waste of his and Moz's precious time.

"Neal!"

The shout tore him out of his dark, defeated thoughts. He half-turned, surprised to see Chuck dashing toward him, Casey, Sarah, and Morgan in tow. If Neal had been in the mood to laugh, he would have found the sight quite comical. Chuck wasn't a runner and looked nearly as elegant as an ostrich as he pushed aside travelers to reach Neal. Casey was rolling his eyes, his jaw set firmly, as if he were preparing himself for cruel and inhumane torture. And maybe he was. Sarah was, well, she was beautiful. Neal found himself wondering if a passionate kiss would restore her memories of him. Sure, she had chosen Chuck last time, but they'd all changed. Morgan was doing his honest best to keep up. He was having a hard time at it, seeing as he was in charge of all their luggage. But, here they all were. For him.

"Chuck?" Neal almost didn't want to believe it, didn't want his hopes dashed again.

"We've decided to help you."

"He decided to help you," Casey explained. "Some of us were dragged along."

Neal smiled, but that quickly faded as he recalled his situation. "I appreciate the sentiment, but it's of no use. My flight has been delayed indefinitely. I need to get back to New York immediately. I don't have time to dawdle around, waiting for a new flight."

It was now Chuck's turn to grin. "Then aren't you glad some of us were dragged along."

Before Neal could even fully comprehend what was happening, he found himself seated in a jet, waiting for Casey to fly them to New York. He supposed that it was a good thing that he had decided to come down to Cali, now he had an even faster way to get to New York, to find Mozzie.

"I can't believe there aren't any of those fancy shrimp cocktails. And here I thought Casey had class," Morgan moped, settling for a bag of stale peanuts instead.

"This isn't my jet. I'm just borrowing it, so you better not mess it up, Grimes," Casey warned, taking his seat in the cockpit.

Morgan frowned exaggeratingly. "Honestly, it's a wonder that I still associate with you; you're such a grouch."

Neal grinned as Morgan popped a few of the peanuts in his mouth. "It's nice to see that Casey's remained the same grouchy Casey." He extended his hand to Morgan, introducing himself. "Neal Caffrey. I don't believe we've ever officially met."

Morgan quickly wiped the excess salt dust on his pants, before offering his hand in return. "Yeah, we never did. You know, I used to want to punch you in the face for how you treated Chuck." Morgan looked Neal up and down. "Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, you're taller than I expected. I suppose I'll have to settle with the fact that Casey has shot you a couple times."

"A couple times too many, in my opinion," Neal countered.

"A couple times too few, in my opinion," Casey interjected.

Chuck quickly jumped into the conversation, forestalling any possible arguments and/or fights about how many times a man deserved to be shot. "So, uh, Neal?" The name still felt wrong on Chuck's tongue, but his past friend turned toward him. "Can you give us a bit of a rundown of what we can expect once we land in New York?"

"Yeah, of course," Neal complied. "Mozzie and I had just finished helping bring down this group of counterfeiters. We were working behind the scenes of Peter's investigation. It was fun; we ended up scoring a Van Gogh. But, anyway, we were going to celebrate that night. Last night. I got home and my apartment was unlocked. Which didn't surprise me, since I thought Moz would be in there. He wasn't. There was this note—" Here, Neal cut off, pulling the crumpled piece of paper out of his jacket and handed it to Chuck. "I know I shouldn't have touched it so we could fingerprint it or something, but I initially thought the note was from Moz. And when I realized it wasn't, I was too angry to think clearly. I immediately found a flight and set off for Burbank. Now we are here."

Chuck had been examining the note as Neal talked. Now he looked up at Neal, handing the note to Sarah, so that she could read it. "Do you have any idea who would want Moz? Or even why?"

Neal shook his head. "Frankly, no. I mean, in our line of business, we make enemies. It happens whenever you're involved in illegal activities. Especially when there are lines you won't cross. Moz and I do con people and steal stuff, but we have never killed anyone," Neal added fervently, holding eye contact with Chuck. "But, no, no one specific comes to mind."

"Any clue as to how Moz may be assisting them?" Sarah asked, handing the note back to Neal, not noticing as Morgan fumbled to reach the note. Too late now. The note was back in Neal's pocket. Morgan rolled his eyes as he realized that they had forgotten him and he wouldn't be able to read the mysterious note. Typical.

"Not really," Neal sighed. "He's a genius. A genius with photographic memory. But he doesn't make that known. In fact, his photographic memory has gotten us out of quite a few scrapes. But, I don't know what he does when he isn't helping me. He could be involved with dangerous men that I have no clue about." Neal shook his head bitterly. "I should know these things. I should—"

"Hey, we'll figure it out," Chuck assured Neal.

Morgan spoke up, raising his hand to catch the others' attention. "So, basically, we're hurling ourselves into this mystery, completely and utterly blind, no idea what will come next, no clue as to what to expect or where to begin?" Morgan asked.

Neal hesitated. This was absurdly hopeless. And he knew it. If he let on the impossibility of this mission, would Chuck and his friends just, just give up? Turn the jet around and return to Burbank where Neal and his problems couldn't bother them? Taking a deep breath, Neal responded in the affirmative. "Sounds about right to me," he said, weakly.

Morgan resettled back in his chair, popping a couple peanuts in his mouth, before grinning wildly. "Let's do this."


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey, ya'll. So, I recognize I'm a day late. Yeah... I'm just going to post two chapters for you, so you don't get all offended or anything. For all you Peter fans out here, he comes in the next chapter. You can't do a White Collar fic without Peter.**

 **No new characters this time!**

* * *

Neal's apartment hadn't seen this many people for quite a while and all of Neal's dining room chairs were occupied. A half-eaten pizza lay in the middle of the table, but Neal didn't think he could stomach anything at the moment. In fact, only Morgan was steadily putting slice after slice away. Casey had glared at Neal for even offering him pizza, muttering something about it not being a "man's meal." Sarah had refused daintily enough. Chuck had declined, instead focusing on the situation on hand. For which Neal was unbelievably grateful for.

"So, Mozzie is last seen around fourish, when the two of you smuggled the painting out of the building," Chuck began, writing the information on the white board Neal had supplied for brainstorming.

"Yes." Neal further explained, "I told him that we would celebrate the Van Gogh last night over a couple glasses of wine. He said he'd be there. But, he never showed up."

"Okay. And he would have probably gone where for dinner?"

Neal thought back to Moz's recent habits. "Maybe that diner off of 5th… He was telling me about one of the waitresses there. Apparently, she double-majored in Latin and History with a minor in computer tech. Moz was telling me that she's pretty great, for a waitress."

Chuck was diligently marking the main points on the white board. "Gotta name?" he asked, without bothering to look up from his work.

"Phyllis? But I'm not certain. I wasn't totally listening," Neal admitted. "I'm an awful friend. I can't even help find Mozzie because I never cared enough to listen to his problems. He always listened when I was having issues with Kate or Peter, but I can't find it in me to listen to his own life problems. Why would he even want to be friends with me, especially after this?"

Casey nodded. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea that he was friends with you before this entire."

Chuck shot Casey a stern look, before turning to Neal. "You are looking for him, so you can't be an absolute failure as a friend," he pointed out.

"I'm pretty sure that was a rhetorical question," Morgan commented behind a mouthful of pizza.

"Well, it's a start," Sarah said, standing up. "Let's go see if we can find ourselves a Phyllis with a love for history and technology."

The diner off of 5th was called Voracious Vegan, a smiling cabbage accompanying the neon lights on the front of the building. "I don't even want to enter," Morgan confided. "I think I'm allergic to health nuts and I don't feel like proving it by a trip to the hospital."

"Oh, shut up," Casey growled, pushing open the door. A couple jingle bells rang to alert the restaurant owner of new customers. The diner was just beginning its dinner rush and nearly all the booths were filled. Neal led the group to a booth near the window, the only one that could fit their large party of five. Especially since Casey was built as big as two Morgans.

A young waitress with bleach-blonde hair bounced to them, prompting Morgan to mutter something about vegans not having that much energy; that she definitely ate hamburgers in her spare time. Luckily, the waitress didn't hear him. "I'm Tina and I'll be serving you tonight. How are we all doing?" A few noncommittal responses echoed across the table, but not everyone was paying attention. Neal was searching the diner for anyone who could possibly be the infamous Phyllis. Morgan was griping about the lack of meat. Casey was counting under his breath, barely refraining from strangling Morgan. Only Sarah and Chuck were paying courteous attention to the waitress. Clearly unruffled by the distinct lack of attention she was receiving, Tina barreled on. "What can I get you to drink?"

"Water. For all of us," Chuck spoke up when he realized no one else was making an effort to respond.

"Awesome! I'll be right back with that and grab your orders at that time." Tina passed out menus before bouncing off to the kitchen.

"Ewww…" Morgan complained. "They don't have any type of cheese on this menu. Or eggs. Ugh, it's just veggies and tofu."

"I'm sure a salad would do you good," Sarah reassured her bearded friend.

"Yes, but at what cost? And they don't even have bacon in their salads to make the torture more worthwhile."

Tina bounced back, deftly placing sweating glasses of cold water in front of each person. Salads were ordered for everyone. Morgan stooped low enough to order a fruit salad, remarking that the dang vegans couldn't screw that up too much.

"Wait," Neal implored, before Tina could bounce away. She pulled out her notebook, expecting an addition to his order, or something of the like. "Is there a Phyllis who works here?"

Tina tucked her notebook back into her apron, before answering, "Yeah, I can send her over here if you want. She's over there."

Neal turned to where Tina pointed. A girl, probably in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, was placing plates in front of a couple. She had long black hair, nearly to her waist and dark red lipstick. "I'd appreciate that," Neal replied.

"Of course!" Tina bounced off again to give their orders to the chef.

"I bet that's not even her real name…" Morgan muttered.

Neal turned to him, surprised. "Phyllis? I mean, sure it's not a gorgeous name, but—"

"No, I meant Tina. Does she look like a Tina? Does anyone even name their daughters Tina? The only Tina I've ever known was a stripper. And even then, I don't think that was her real name," Morgan rambled.

Casey grunted semi-threateningly, leading Morgan to wisely fall silent.

"Do you think she knows anything?" Neal asked softly.

"About Mozzie's disappearance? Probably nothing. But if we're lucky, she may have seen someone he talked to, someone who followed him out," Chuck said.

"There just aren't enough leads…" Neal complained. Generally, he enjoyed cases where it seemed like nothing was fitting; Neal loved piecing clues together to find the big picture, no matter the struggle. But this wasn't a normal case that he and Peter took on. The stakes were too high. Mozzie's life was on the line. If he couldn't find him—

"We'll find him," Chuck reassured Neal.

Neal grinned thankfully. He was glad to have a friend such as Chuck. He still felt that tinge of regret for letting Chuck believe he was dead, for lying to his Stanford buddy. It had been necessary, Neal understood that. But that didn't make it any easier. Maybe when this whole fiasco was over and Moz was safe, they could all return to being friends.

The waitress named Phyllis approached them, smiling brightly. "Tina said you wanted to talk to me?"

"Yeah," Chuck spoke up first. "Do you remember a patron by the name of Mozzie?"

The smile fell instantly. "Are you guys the police or something?"

"Just friends," Chuck reassured her. She glanced at Casey, her eyes lingering on him fearfully. "Friends that are greatly worried about him."

Phyllis' eyes snapped back to Chuck. "What happened? Is he okay?"

"He's missing," Sarah explained.

"Do you know where he is?" Phyllis asked, her hand flying to her mouth in the classic worried female gesture.

"He's missing." Morgan elaborated, "As in, no, we don't know where he is."

Phyllis looked outraged, her eyebrows tugging upward and inward. "And you think I had something to do with his disappearance?!"

Chuck flashed her a confused look, while also gesturing her to keep her voice down so as to not draw the eyes of everyone in the building to their booth. "What? No!"

"Why? Should we?" Neal asked, suddenly suspicious. He studied her reaction. If he could just catch a glimpse… Of what? Guilt? Anger? Insanity? Neal had no clue what he was looking for. He only hoped it would manifest itself in a way he would undoubtedly recognize.

"I would never do anything to Mozzie. I—" Phyllis hesitated, and Neal instinctively knew that the manifestation was coming; he could feel it in the tense air encompassing their booth. "I love him!"

Oops. Wrong manifestation.

* * *

Phyllis had promptly burst into tears, ignoring Chuck and Sarah's awkward efforts to console her. Tina stormed over (not bouncing, what?) closely followed by the store's manager. Phyllis had given her tear-stained testimony of what had occurred the day earlier; that Mozzie had been followed by two burly men in black. Phyllis bemoaned not following him, not making sure he was okay. Once Phyllis had completely dissolved into tears, the manager shooed the group away, not even allowing them doggie bags, to Morgan's disappointment. Something about being a nuisance and not being allowed to return, ever again. As they exited the restaurant, every eye trained on the group, Casey muttered to Neal, "Great going. Quite the exit you provided us."

"Shut up," Neal murmured, already ashamed at how that whole experience had turned out.

"At least we know she reciprocates his feelings," Morgan piped up. "That's good."

"What help will that be in finding Moz?" Neal exploded at Morgan, who backed an inch away, suddenly remembering that Neal had killed men. Many men. "Phyllis gave us nothing to go on. That was the vaguest suspect description I've ever heard. 'Two burly men in black. They looked angry.' That won't help us. And whatever feelings Phyllis claims she has for Mozzie isn't going to help us too!"

"So, you're giving up?" Chuck asked, stepping between Morgan and Neal. Morgan backed up in relief. Chuck waited until Neal made eye contact with him and then he continued, "You're, what, going to just walk away because one witness didn't have the best clue? Because this isn't as easy or simple as you expected? The Bryce Larkin I knew would never throw in the flag so easily. And I know, I know you've changed, that you're Neal now. But I don't believe that Neal would give in so easily, that Neal would back down from a challenge."

Chuck held Neal's sorrowful gaze and the entire group remained quiet, waiting for someone, something to break the silence. Morgan volunteered himself, feeling quite confident, now that Neal was not staring him down. "As a wise woman once said, 'Pull yourself together!'"

It worked. Neal cracked a smile. "Isn't that from some Pixar movie?"

"The Incredibles. Yes. A wise woman, Edna was. Is. She didn't die, did she?"

Casey grunted, "Does it even matter?"

"I wouldn't be so quick to say that," Morgan advised. "The Incredibles is your daughter's favorite Pixar movie. Maybe you should respect it a bit more."

Casey rolled his eyes, ignoring Morgan and turning to Neal. "What's the plan now?"

"I don't know," Neal admitted, running his hand through his hair. "I really don't have anything else to go on."

"This is turning out real well," Casey muttered, sarcastically. "Guess we better keep our eyes peeled for those two burly men. Remember, guys, they look angry."

"You know what? No. I'm going to go talk to Phyllis. Maybe she saw something else. I've got a clearer head. Hopefully, she's done crying. I might be able to job her memory a bit, if I just sit down and talk to her. Person to person."

Chuck shrugged. "You've got nothing better to do. What about us, though?"

"Head back to my apartment. June'll let you in."

Morgan exclaimed, "I'm ordering pizza!"

Sarah added, "And I'm going to go for some of the wine."

Neal nodded. "Go ahead. I don't have the stomach for it yet. I'll be back. Soon, hopefully."

He set off down the street, retracing his tracks to the Voracious Vegan. Remembering the manager's harsh words, Neal decided it would be best if he kept watch from across the street, down a couple shops. Now it didn't look like he was loitering in front of the store. From the wide front windows, Neal watched Phyllis as she made her final rounds, finally slipping off her black apron. He almost called out her name, when she exited the building, but bit back his shout when he noticed the tall, bald man in a leather jacket step toward her. Neal began to cross the street, planning on confronting the man if he attacked Phyllis. Instead they began to passionately—very passionately, as in get-a-room—kiss.

"That's a new manifestation," Neal muttered, resolving to follow the couple later, before heading back to report.


	4. Chapter 4

**Just pointing out, in case this is confusing, that disregarding the first part of the first chapter, all of this has taken place in one day. It's been a freakin' long day for all the characters. This chapter, we finally move on to the next day, so hooray for that!**

 **New characters:**

 **Peter Burke- Neal's FBI handler and best friend. He has a wife named Elizabeth (but she goes by El).**

 **Nathan Ford- He's the head of the Leverage team. They go around doing good by committing crimes. It's all very Robin Hood-y. He creates the plans.**

 **Alec Hardison- Tech guy of Leverage. Also, is dating Parker.**

 **Parker- Thief. She loves to steal things and she's pretty awesome at it also. Dating Hardison.**

 **Sophie Devereaux- She's a grafter, which is a fancy name for a con artist. Acting is her forte.**

 **Elliot Spencer- He's the fighter. He protects the team.**

* * *

"And so they were just making out, tongues and everything?" Morgan asked behind a mouthful of pizza.

Neal rolled his eyes. "They were definitely a couple."

"Tongues?"

"You know, I can't say for sure. I didn't ask," Neal muttered sarcastically.

Morgan muttered under his breath, "Maybe you should have…"

"Well, I guess she doesn't love Mozzie. Or does she love both of them?" Chuck asked, making note on the white board.

"Do we even know who Mr. Leather Jacket is?" Sarah asked.

The sun was setting, mingling beautiful streaks of blue and orange. No one in the room had eyes for the beauty, though. It had been a long day and it was finally catching up to the group. Casey was leaning back in his chair. While he looked as if he were dozing, Morgan had discovered—upon trying to snatch Casey's doughnut—that the NSA agent was not, in fact, sleeping. Sarah was slumped forward, watching Chuck's hand move across the white board. Morgan was wide awake, a testament to the effects of three shots of caffeine. Chuck didn't look tired, but Neal assumed that he was just as exhausted as the others.

"Do we think Phyllis is involved in Mozzie's disappearance?" Chuck asked.

Neal shrugged, pouring himself a glass of wine. Funny, how now that it was late at night, he wasn't too bothered about drinking the wine without Mozzie. "I don't know what to think. She certainly hasn't been telling the truth. At least about her feelings for Moz."

"We don't know that for sure," Chuck asserted. "If it was an act, it was quite convincing."

"I don't really think—" Neal broke off, mid-thought. Had he heard-? Yep, footsteps on the stairs. Before anyone could move, Neal had set his glass of wine on the table and covered the white board with a painting that he had started the week before.

"Wha—" Chuck began, but was cut off as the door was pushed open.

If it hadn't been such a serious situation, Neal would have laughed. Casey had jolted awake, his entire body straightening into a nearly threatening stance. Morgan dropped the pizza slice he had been holding. Sarah almost fell out of her chair, but hid it by sipping from Neal's wine glass. Only Chuck retained his cool, too focused on the painting Neal had pulled from where? and used to cover the white board.

"Neal, we missed you at work—oh," Peter trailed off, suddenly unsure. He hadn't thought that Neal would have had friends over.

Neal stepped over to Peter, motioning him in. "Guys, this is Peter Burke, FBI extraordinaire. Peter, that's Chuck, Sarah, Morgan, and the grumpy one is Casey."

"Uh, nice to meet you." Peter waved his hand a bit awkwardly, overly conscious of the glare the one named Casey was shooting him. "Why weren't you at the office today?" Peter hissed.

Neal frowned. "I called it in."

"You said you'd be sick. Not downing countless bottles of wine with your buddies. Does Mozzie know you're having this party without him?"

Years of practice of hiding his emotions saved Neal from giving everything away right then and there. Instead he clenched his teeth into a smile and lied his butt off. "Moz? Oh, he said he couldn't make it."

"Probably doing something illegal, no doubt. Something he'll want immunity for in a couple weeks," Peter grumbled. He focused his attention back on Neal's guests. "So, what's the occasion for the party? And why wasn't I invited?" Peter glanced at Neal. "Don't tell me this is some plan to steal a treasure."

"German U-boat."

"Ha. Ha." Peter stood awkwardly by the door, scanning the faces. They didn't look suspicious. Or like art thieves. The bearded one didn't look brilliant enough to plan a heist. The blonde could be a thief, but she looked more deadly than thief-y, Peter decided. Speaking of deadly, the Casey one… He looked as if he had killed before. And as if he enjoyed it. Not the type of person Neal would hang out with. The brunette by the painting just looked like your average Joe. So, maybe Neal wasn't planning anything. Maybe these were, simply, his friends.

"Sooo…" Neal began, breaking off the awkward silence. "You want some wine?"

"No," Peter declined. "I was just dropping by to make sure you were fine. El's expecting me for a late dinner. You'll be at work tomorrow?"

"Yes," Neal agreed, though it hurt to do so. He wanted to spend every waking hour on the hunt for Mozzie.

"Neal, you can't do that!" Sarah suddenly exclaimed, drawing everyone's attention to her. She gave him a pointed look. "You promised you'd attend Chuck and I's wedding."

Neal quickly played along. "That's tomorrow?"

"It's the 12th, isn't it?" Sarah asked sarcastically.

"I suppose."

"Which means tomorrow is the 13th and Chuck and I are getting married."

Neal shook his head, smiling. "I thought it was the day after tomorrow." He turned to Peter. "Are you okay if I…"

Peter smiled. "Sure, go ahead. We don't have any big cases at the moment. Enjoy yourself, but I do expect you on Friday."

"Aye, aye, Chief." Neal mock-saluted Peter as he left the building. As soon as Peter was gone, Neal turned to Sarah. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, but that's really only a one-time thing. Chuck and I can't keep going through wedding ceremonies because you don't want to work."

Neal nodded. "I hope that we can find Mozzie soon and I won't even need to stay away from work."

"You work for the FBI?" Casey asked.

"Yeah, I'm a CI for Peter. Have been for a couple years now."

Casey grunted approvingly. "Glad to see you're finally learning some respect for this country. Even if you do continue your thieving ways."

"I want to join in on his 'thieving ways,'" Morgan groused. "I have a cool name. The Bearded Bandit."

"Can we focus on the real issue?" Sarah asked, rubbing circles at her temples. "We only have tomorrow for Neal to find Mozzie before he has to return to work."

"He could always fake his death and create a new persona," Chuck suggested, sarcastically. Neal shot him a hurt look, prompting Chuck to take back his comment. Sorta. "Okay, okay, not a good idea. We don't want to hurt Peter like you hurt us."

Neal rolled his eyes. "Look, Sarah's right. We need a definite plan of action before I go back to work. We need to know where Mozzie is. And right now, I think our only path to Mozzie is through this suspicious Phyllis."

"Major problem," Chuck pointed out. "She knows all of our faces."

"Yes!" Morgan shouted, pumping his fist. "Disguises!"

"Too risky," Neal cautioned. "We need to involve new people. But, everyone I can trust is FBI. And, no," Neal started, noticing Morgan about to offer a suggestion, "Jeff and Lester do not count as allies."

"They brought down the bad guys last time," Morgan pointed out. To which, Neal shook his head, eyes firm.

"I have a friend, an old war buddy," Casey started slowly. "He works with a team of con artists. They'd probably help if I asked. They're down in Boston."

"Can we trust them?" Chuck asked.

"We have to."

* * *

Above John McRory's bar, Nate observed his team's petty squabble. He was surprised how quickly they had become family. Sophie Devareaux, the beautiful grafter, was currently proclaiming the importance of impoverished African children that, if they were able to pose as diplomats, could be provided food and clean water for years. If the con went well, of course. Parker, the petite thief, was arguing that their time would be best spent rescuing orphans, housed right here in town. Alec Hardison, their hacker, was siding with Parker. Typical, Nate mused. He had noticed that the hacker and the thief had been growing closer and closer. And their muscle, Elliot Spencer, was frowning at his phone. Something he rarely did. Technology and screens were more of Hardison's forte.

"What do you think, Nate?" Sophie implored. "Starving African children or orphans?"

"Starving orphans!" Parker interjected.

"Well, Nigerian diplomats would be much more fun to impersonate," Nate pointed out.

"We can still pose as diplomats, it just requires a more elaborate con," Hardison countered. "You wanna be a Nigerian diplomat, I get that, so we can do that with the orphans."

Sophie rolled her eyes. "Let's not overcomplicate things."

"Yeah, like flying out to Chad isn't overcomplicating things," Parker commented.

"It's worth it if it's for a good cause!"

"And orphans aren't good enough for you?"

"These children need—"

"The orphans are just as needy. And right in our backyard!"

Nate quickly interrupted his team, before this became a full-out fight. "Hey, we've got five people here. Elliot can be our tie-breaker."

"Yeah, Elliot, my man, what'ya think about them orphans?" Hardison pressed, inching closer to the fighter.

"But the African children," Sophie implored.

"Just stop!" Elliot growled, pushing his teammates away. "Look, I'm not in on this one."

"What do you mean?" Nate asked.

Elliot shrugged on his leather jacket. "I've got a friend in trouble. At the moment, he takes precedence over your African orphans. So, if you'll excuse me, I need to go talk to him." The last sentence was directed at Nate, who was standing in front of the door, not willing to move quite yet.

"What sort of a friend?" Nate asked. Elliot had always been secretive about his personal life, which had never bothered Nate until this moment. Nate had no clue who this mysterious friend was or even why he had reentered Elliot's life right at this moment.

"My kind of a friend. May I leave?"

Nate immediately stepped away from the door. "Why, yes, by all means, leave. But, I'm coming with you." Elliot gave Nate a pointed look. "Hey, this could be a job for the entire team. I need to be there."

Elliot growled, "Fine, come along, but you're not allowed to speak. This is between John and I." Nate nodded and the pair exited the room, heading to a bar across town, where John Casey was waiting to meet with his old pal, Elliot Spencer.

After they had left, Hardison grinned triumphantly. "Hah! Two to one; orphans it is!" Sophie slumped her head into her arms, a sigh of defeat voicing her thoughts.

Across town, Elliot scanned the bar, where John Casey had asked him to meet. It had been a couple years since he had seen the fellow and the text had been completely out of the blue. Something important must have happened for his old friend to contact him. There, all the way in the back corner of the bar, John Casey was seated at a booth, a younger man, probably around Hardison's age, squished in beside him. The pair was conversing quietly and didn't notice Elliot until he sat down across from them.

"John," Elliot greeted, extending his hand.

"Elliot," Casey returned, shaking his friend's hand. "And?"

"Nathan Ford," Nate introduced himself.

The younger man's eyes widened. "Are you, by any chance, related to Jimmy Ford?"

"He's my father," Nate admitted suspiciously.

"He's one of the great con artists. I studied a couple of his cons at the beginning of—"

"His, frankly, unlawful career," Casey interrupted. "This here is Br—Neal Caffrey. He's the one that requires your assistance."

Taking a breath, Neal plunged right into the story of Mozzie's disappearance two nights ago. He took care to explain how he had gotten Chuck and associates to join in on the search. Neal explained their trip to the Voracious Vegan in great detail, ending with the scene he had witnessed outside the diner. "So, Phyllis is probably in on Moz's abduction, but we burned all our identities already."

"And so you want me to confront her?" Elliot asked.

"We could have our entire team assist you," Nate suggested. "More people could create a more convincing con."

"Would you?" Neal asked.

Nate shrugged. "We're not doing much at the moment. Just arguing, actually. If you guys would like, you could head back to our base—my apartment, actually—and you could meet the others."

"That'd be nice," Neal agreed, standing up.

Casey and Elliot met each other's eyes, sighing together. This was why they had both wanted to come alone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey, ya'll. Yes. It is a Wednesday, but it's Wednesday morning, so that sorta counts for something, right? Right? So, I would give you two chapters because I really want to be one of those steady writers that updates consistently, but I'm really close to where I'm currently writing and I don't want to catch up on myself and then have to not update because I don't have anything to update.**

 **No new characters, but I forgot to mention that Elliot doesn't like to use guns. That's pretty important in this chapter and later ones.**

* * *

"And, as it turns out, he's actually alive, and I'm stuck here, helping him find his idiotic friend. I only came because Chuck felt like we needed to help him. Besides, if this goes the right way, I'll be able to shoot our way out, Neal's Mozzie safely rescued. No rescue is complete without a shoot-out."

Elliot shook his head. "You're still crazy about guns?"

"I'm one of the best shots in the world," Casey growled. "Don't imply using firearms is a weakness."

"It's not that it's a weakness," Elliot began, "it's just a personal preference. I don't need a gun to do my job."

"And I do?" Casey's voice had lowered at the threat.

Elliot shrugged. "I had thought that you were giving that crap up after what happened in Bermuda."

"You know that wasn't my fault. And I happen to recall you blowing twenty guards away back in Yugoslavia. Conveniently forget that, eh?"

"I'll shoot if I need to," Elliot growled. "It was the only way I could get your helpless butt out of there alive."

"Helpless?" Casey scoffed.

"Who came here for my help?"

Nate quickly interjected. "Okay! Look, we've reached the bar. Neal, John, why don't you come meet the rest of the team."

"Casey." Casey looked directly in Elliot's eyes. "Call me Casey. We aren't on a first name basis."

With a jerky nod, Elliot yanked open the car door, walking into the bar without bothering to wait for Casey or Neal. The bar was mostly empty, for which Elliot was grateful. He couldn't believe he was fighting with John. Casey. Whatever. They had always had their misunderstandings, but they usually worked through them. He didn't think any less of Casey because he favored firearms; in fact, he admired that Casey hadn't—or wouldn't—let the deaths get to him. Or hid the pain well. Elliot didn't feel he was strong enough to do that. That's what always led to their fights: a fear that he was weak. And fear that made Elliot lash out at whatever was trapping him. That's why he had locked himself in that shed. Fear was a weakness. And Elliot couldn't afford to be weak.

Their last fight had been huge. John—no, Casey had told Elliot to leave, that they wouldn't be working on side jobs together. It had been nearly three years since they had talked, let alone worked together. Elliot had been surprised to get the text from Casey, a sure sign that he needed help. And here he was already fighting. "Shot of whiskey," Elliot growled at the bartender. He had just set his glass down, when Nate entered, followed closely by Neal and Casey. He would fix this. Somehow. They'd find Neal's friend—Mozley, or some other strange name—and hopefully that would mend everything.

Elliot had a sinking feeling that it wouldn't be enough, would never be enough.

"Let's go," he growled at the group. Casey looked like he was going to mutter something, but he held whatever it was back, settling on a glare at his past friend. Elliot understood that Casey was nearly the same as him; he was probably afraid of looking weak also, and was shutting Elliot out in an effort to banish the fear. In other words, this would be harder than Elliot preferred.

Up above the bar, Hardison was trying to help Parker win Minesweeper. It wasn't going so well. "Now, see how that little box says a three? It means it's touching three bombs. So, three of the little boxes surrounding it are bombs. Don't click on them. Mark 'em with a flag."

"You're giving me too many instructions," Parker complained, clicking a couple random boxes, before her screen exploded in red from clicking a mine.

Hardison sighed. This was harder than expected. "You weren't even lookin' at the numbers, girl. How can you expect to survive if you don't even read the stupid numbers?"

At that moment, Elliot stormed into the apartment, looking as angry as ever. "Whoa, man. Job fell through?" Hardison asked. Elliot simply snarled at him, making his way to the fridge to grab a beer. He needed liquor to work his way through this mess he'd made. If he'd only kept his big mouth shut—

"Is that Elliot's friend?" Parker asked as Neal entered the room, his icy blue eyes scanning the room. He's sizing it up, Hardison realized.

"No, I think that one's Elliot's friend," Hardison muttered as Casey entered the room, scowling. "See, they're both muscly and angry."

"Like evil twins," Parker agreed quietly.

Nate clapped his hands together, grabbing everyone's attention. "So," he announced, "it looks like we may have a job. It doesn't involve starving African children or starving orphans."

"What does it involve?" Sophie asked.

"Hopefully no starving whatsoever," Neal began, smiling, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. If whoever had Mozzie was hurting him, was starving him—"My best friend, Mozzie, has been missing for two nights now. We think this woman, Phyllis, may have something to do with it, but we, stupidly, burned all our identities. Basically, we need a couple people to come in and figure out what is up with her. She claims that she's in love with Mozzie and then I saw her making out with some man. I feel that if we can figure out who this man is, we'll be able to get a break in the search for Moz."

Hardison looked up from his laptop. "I don't believe you."

Neal looked taken aback, but simply cocked his head to the side, to mask his surprise. "Oh? How so?"

"Mozzie, as you call him, doesn't exist." Hardison spun his laptop around to show that all searches had led to nothing. "His name or alias or whatever didn't show up anywhere."

"Well, of course it doesn't," Neal sputtered. He, frankly, had no clue that Mozzie had been good enough to completely erase himself from the internet. There had been enough incidents with the FBI and other unwanted criminals that Neal would have figured that there'd have been at least a few articles citing him. "Did you try Havisham?" was the only thing Neal could suggest.

Hardison rolled his eyes. "Elliot, I don't trust this guy. Or your angry friend over there. How do we know this isn't some trick? Do you even know this guy?" Elliot eyed Neal suspiciously, before honestly admitting that he did not. "And you, Elliot's friend," Hardison addressed Casey, "how well do you know, uh," he paused, before continuing, "I don't even know either of your names."

"John Casey," Casey introduced himself. "And this is Neal Caffrey."

"How well do you know him?" Hardison pressed.

Casey shrugged. "He, unwelcomely, popped back into our life the day before yesterday. I hadn't spoken to him in years. Or shot him," Casey added as an afterthought.

"And none of this strikes you as suspicious?" Hardison asked. "Nate, we're out. We can't trust this fellow. There is literally nothing that backs up his story."

Nate glanced at Elliot. "Elliot, Casey's your friend. What do you think?"

Elliot placed his beer down on the counter, watching Casey carefully. "Can I speak with him for a moment? Privately?" Nate nodded, so Casey followed Elliot out into the hallway.

"Let me guess," Casey began, "you wanted to comment about how I had shot Neal before."

"No, I wanted to know if you trusted him. This is my team that's going to go in and work with him. I am not going to put them in danger. If you think that this man is lying, that it's some elaborate con or something, then I won't let my people get involved."

Casey arched an eyebrow. "And what if I were lying, just to get you in trouble, to get your team in trouble?"

Elliot sighed. "I trust you, John. Yes, we fight, but in the end, you have my back and I have yours."

The pair remained silent for a moment as Casey chewed on Elliot's words. "I trust him," he eventually said. "And I trust you. Now, how about you get me one of those beers I saw you drinking. It's no fair to hog them all to yourself, you know."

Elliot laughed. "I do know. Remember that time—"

"In Charleston? How could I forget? You had drunk the entire pack before I returned!" Casey pushed open the door, laughing at the memory. Elliot held back a bit, the smile falling slightly. He wasn't sure if he had completely worked everything out with John, but it was a start. And the finish would be when they found this mysterious Mozzie, wherever he may be.

"Well?" Hardison demanded, when the pair returned.

"We're taking the job," Elliot informed his team.

"Are you sure?" Nate asked, observing the hit man.

Elliot nodded. "I trust John. He wouldn't lead us into anything overtly dangerous. At least not on purpose."

"So, what now?" Parker asked petulantly.

"I guess you guys get to visit New York," Neal suggested. He checked his watch. "And if Casey drives like usual, we'll be able to get there in about three hours. That gives you guys enough time to come up with a quick con and put it into place tonight when Phyllis will get off her shift at the diner."

"Whoa, whoa, hold up. You expect us to come up with a con to find your friend—"

"Find out who Phyllis' boyfriend is," Neal quickly interjected.

"—in just three hours?" Hardison complained.

"I thought you were the best?" Neal shrugged.

Nate responded. "We are. And we will. We've got the entire drive. Now, uh, Casey, if you'd lead the way?"

* * *

After much discussion and complaints by Hardison, the Leverage team had finally settled on a con that would provide them with the information they needed to discover the identity of Phyllis' boyfriend/lover/mysterious kisser. It started with Neal approaching Phyllis and her mysterious man.

"Look, if you have any information," Neal began, dashing across the street to the Voracious Vegan. He had been lucky that they had managed to gather the supplies needed for the con in just enough time to catch Phyllis leaving the restaurant, man on arm. "Any information," he continued, slightly breathless, "on where Mozzie is, you need to let me know." Neal noticed the man's eyes hardened at his friend's name. Good. He was involved. It would be awkward if he actually wasn't involved and Neal had sent Casey's friend's team on a wild goose chase.

Up close, Neal could now really examine him. He wasn't tall, probably around 5'8", but he held himself as if he were tall: shoulders back, legs spread apart, chin high. He had light brown hair that was receding rapidly, but didn't seem bothered by it. Probably because Phyllis was currently clutching his bicep.

"What are you talking about?" Phyllis demanded. "I told you that I didn't know what happened. Three guys just came up and grabbed him. They had a red truck. I told you all of this!"

Neal resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, if you're going to lie, keep your story straight. She was definitely an amateur. Maybe they took Mozzie to learn how to run a con; they needed all the help they could get.

"I know," Neal agreed, deciding to pretend he hadn't noticed the major discrepancies in her story, "but, maybe there's something you forgot or missed. Anything could help me find him."

Phyllis shook her head, clearly exasperated. "Just, just leave. I don't remember anything else."

"Please," Neal pestered. He wasn't sure if Elliot and Parker were in place yet and things would get very awkward if they weren't ready when he became the catalyst. If he could keep Phyllis talking for just a few more minutes, surely they would have—

"Look, the lady asked you to leave," the man on her side started. "So, why don't you leave?" The last sentence was more a command than a question and Neal definitely got the hint. That added to the angrily suspicious glint in the man's eyes further encouraged Neal to begin the con.

Taking a deep breath and steeling himself for what was to come, Neal muttered a "fine, I'll find him on my own," before dialing a number. "Chuck," he began, turning and walking away from the couple. "Phyllis doesn't know what's going on. We'll have to look—"

Neal never saw the black SUV coming.


	6. Chapter 6

**No, new characters. I've got about 5 more chapters written/planned out and then that'll be it. So, we're looking about another month with this baby and onto the next! Once again, if you're looking for a type of scene or something, I can try to fit it in. Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

Neal opened his eyes, blearily blinking at his unfamiliar surroundings. He was laying down in some drab, white room. A familiar pinching sensation turned Neal's attention to his wrist. Ah, an IV. Hospital. He was in a hospital. But, why? With a sudden ferocity, the memories came rushing back to Neal. He had been hit by that SUV. Hard. He had hit the ground, his vision blacking around the edges. Distantly, he had heard someone screaming, but it sounded as if were coming from a tunnel, or underwater, or something equally confusing. Neal had been really tempted to sit up, but the pounding in his head was really screwing with that idea. Besides, that would've gone against the con. Ugh, this was a stupid con, Neal had decided.

"Oh, crap. Crap. I just hit a man." Neal had heard Nate shouting and could imagine the man running his hands through his curly hair. He had continued to lay limp. If Phyllis would just buy this…

From across the street, Sophie was shouting for witnesses to the crime, exclaiming that she was the reporter for Channel 7. He knew that Hardison was right next to her, posed as the cameraman. They were supposed to make their way across the street to where Phyllis was.

Suddenly, someone was kneeling beside Neal, completely disrupting his thoughts on the con. Two careful fingers were placed against his neck, searching for a pulse, Neal assumed. "It's weak, fast," Elliot had growled.

"His BP's low," Parker had responded, removing the sphygmo—sphygmoma—Neal gave up trying to pronounce the instrument's name in his head and focused again on what had occurred. Parker had removed the blood pressure thingy, which Neal couldn't remember her even putting on him.

"We'll need to intubate," Elliot had muttered.

Neal had barely had time to comprehend what intubate meant (in tube? Oh, crap.) before Elliot was repositioning his head. "Con," he had tried to croak out, suddenly worried that Elliot would actually follow through with his supposedly clever intubation idea. Neal's fears had been rather well founded, he discovered, as a tube was unceremoniously shoved down his throat. Okay, wasn't this taking the con a bit far? Neal had really wanted to tell them to stop, just take him off in the ambulance, but he couldn't talk because there was a freakin' tube intubated in him. Besides, his head was really starting to ache. Elliot and Parker had carefully hoisted Neal onto a gurney, before transporting him to the stolen ambulance. Neal had shut his eyes gratefully. Ow, that had hurt. Did Nate really have to hit him that hard? Casey would be pleased with his pain, though.

"We'll be at the hospital in about fifteen minutes," Parker had reassured Neal, before joining Elliot in the front of the ambulance.

Neal had wanted to point out that this was a con, that they were supposed to take him back to his apartment, or something like that, but the tube and his heavy head was making all forms of communication impossible. Neal had settled for a soft groan and a gentle shake of the head before letting unconsciousness claim him. He couldn't remember past that point.

"Figured it all out, I guess?"

Neal blinked toward his right side, where the voice had materialized. "Peter?" he croaked, suddenly wishing he had something to drink.

Peter must not have noticed the thirsty looks Neal was shooting him, because he barreled on. "I hope you figured it all out, because I sure as heck haven't. What happened to you?"

Telling Peter that he had asked Nate to hit him for a con and then had actually landed himself in a hospital didn't seem like the wisest thing to do. Besides, he'd have to explain why they were conning Phyllis and her mysterious man. Upon hearing Neal's position, Peter would undoubtedly volunteer to help find Mozzie. Which was involving him, which was not allowed. "Got hit by a car."

Rolling his eyes, Peter stood up to hand Neal a cup of water, finally taking notice of his friend's scratchy throat. "Yeah, I noticed. Neal, it was a hit and run. Did someone hit you with a car on purpose?"

Yeah, actually, but it's okay because I told him to hit me. "I… don't think so," Neal settled for.

"You and the little guy aren't doing some criminal activities behind my back? Nothing that would get you enemies?"

"No, nothing like that." Criminal activities, p'sha. Heroic activities, though.

Peter ran his hand through his hair. "Neal, I want to believe you, I do. I'm only asking these questions to keep you from getting hurt."

And I'm only lying to you to keep Mozzie from getting hurt. "Well, I'm fine," Neal offered weakly.

Snorting humorlessly, Peter muttered, "Yeah, a man ends up in the hospital with fractured ribs and a concussion and then claims he's 'fine.' Tell Mozzie that he'd better not let you get hurt like this again."

"…Will do."

Peter checked his watch, cursing softly. "Look, I've got to get to work. And I don't want to see your face at work tomorrow or Friday. You will be staying here and resting. Got it?"

"You drive a hard bargain, Peter."

"Get better. I'm sure El will drop by sometime with muffins or some other get better present. Like a bear. A bear with a tracking anklet." Peter paused outside the door. "Speaking of which, why did you fly to California again. I remember you went to Boston for that vow renewal thing for your friends, but what was in California?"

Neal only blanked for a second, quickly explaining, "I went to Chuck's bachelor party, of course. Didn't I tell you?"

"All you told me was that you had to go to California for the day."

"Well, it was his bachelor party for his wedding. It was short, but the party was still fun."

Peter stared Neal down. "No illegal activities?"

"None."

Peter nodded, trusting the ex-con. "Good. Well, I'll talk to you later." As he left, he was nearly pushed aside by whom he assumed was Neal's friends. Some tall, gangly black fellow had his arm draped around a shorter blonde girl, both laughing about something. An angry-looking fellow followed them closely. Lagging a bit behind was an older man talking softly to a beautiful British lady. He watched them for a moment, before shrugging and moving on. Neal would be fine.

Neal smiled when he saw the Leverage team enter his room. "Did it work? Did we get our guy?"

"Ish," Hardison confirmed, shrugging one of his shoulders in one of those sideways movements.

"What do you mean by 'ish?'"

"I mean that we got a name, but that we have no way to confirm if he's telling the truth. We at least know he's involved; he kept his face carefully away from the camera the entire time. I'm hoping of going to that restaurant tomorrow night under the pretense of getting different shots for the story and getting a nice clean shot of his face. Then we can really find out who he is," Hardison explained.

"Who does he say he is?" Neal asked.

"Sid Winters," Sophie said, before Hardison could. The hacker clicked his tongue at her in annoyance, but allowed her to take his thunder. "At least that's what he told us."

Neal felt the blood drain from his face. This could explain— But, he was probably lying. Hopefully lying. "Winters?" Neal swallowed thickly. "Are you sure?"

"Uh, yeah," Hardison cut in before Sophie could.

Elliot picked up on Neal's distress. "Why? Is that significant?"

"Just, uh, maybe. Mozzie's real name is Teddy Winters. I mean, it could just be a coincidence and we don't even know if Winters is his real name, but—"

"But this could explain why Mozzie was taken in the first place," Nate interrupted. "What do you know about his family?"

"Nothing," Neal shrugged helplessly. "As a baby, he was dropped off at an orphanage. He searched for his family, birth certificates, marriage records, court records, death certificates, everything he could think of, but to no luck. I have no clue if this guy could be related to Moz. If he is, though, he knows how to stay hidden."

"Must run in the family," Hardison muttered, remembering the lack of information on Mozzie himself.

"Hmm," Nate tapped his finger against his chin. "Well, we'll know more when Hardison gets the facial recognition. Until then, we'll leave you to your hospital room. Sorry about landing you here, but you can't just get up and walk after getting hit by a car."

"Hit and run, no less," Neal muttered.

Nate held his hands up in supplication. "Look, if we're going to nab these guys, I can't have my face going around in the news. And I especially can't be behind bars."

"It's fine. Just a few fractured ribs and the end of a concussion."

"Practically good as new," Nate agreed, grinning. "We'll see you tomorrow."

"Have a good night," Neal replied, watching his new friends leave the room. At least new friendships were cropping up from this entirely awful situation; there was a silver lining to this giant Mozzie-shaped rain cloud.

He was just leaning back against his pillow, settling for a long night in the crunchy hospital bed. At least he had a second-story window, so he could sort of see the moon. Neal was studying the dark sky when his door was ripped open and a giant teddy bear bounced in. Neal blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the situation. Were the drugs he was on that strong? No, Converse shoes peeked out from beneath the over-sized stuffed creature. "Brought you a bear."

"Uh, thanks," Neal replied, not quite sure he was talking to. The voice was familiar but—

The bear was set on a chair beside Neal's bed, revealing a grinning Morgan Grimes. "Chuck didn't think you should be left alone at night; something about Phyllis probably catching on. Anyway, he and Sarah are gonna spend the night in the hotel room. _Alone_ ," Morgan emphasized the word, giving Neal a significant look. "And Casey probably would've attacked you himself. So, it's just you and me. And Honey-Boo-Boo," Morgan added, gesturing to the bear. "Get it? Honey, since it's a bear. Boo-Boo, since you're hurt. Honey-Boo-Boo."

"No," Neal said firmly. "That bear will not be called Honey-Boo-Boo."

"Too late." Morgan pulled out a certificate. "Build-a-Bear makes it official. Honey-Boo-Boo has been adopted by the illustrious Neal Caffrey. See, it says it right here." Morgan handed the "birth certificate" to Neal, pointing out the line that named Neal the guardian of Honey-Boo-Boo.

"I think I'll just call him Boo-Boo. Double B, for short."

Morgan nodded, taking a seat in one of the plastic chairs that were probably used as medieval torture devices back in the day. "But, if you're ever super angry at the bear, you have to call him by his full name. That's the only way he's going to learn to respect you."

"Thanks for the advice. And the bear. It's nice in a weird, giant sort of way."

A sort of awkward silence settled between the pair as Neal realized he didn't really even know the shorter man. He had never talked to him, not truly talked to him, when he first came back to see Chuck. And try to win Sarah back. He didn't know what he liked to do in his spare time, whether he had family; Neal knew nothing. Morgan reached down to pull something out of the backpack he had placed on the ground. "I figured you wouldn't be super eager to talk to me since we aren't exactly friends. I mean, we're not _not_ friends. We're just, uh, not friends. So, I brought my laptop. I know you like Star Trek, so I've got all the original episodes on my laptop. I'm more of a Kirk kinda guy, but if you like Picard, I've got the Next Gen episodes on there, too."

Neal was shocked into a smile. "You speak Klingon?"

"Uh, no, actually. Watched it often enough, you'd think I would have picked it up, but never cared enough to. Doesn't stop me from enjoying the show."

"Thanks, Morgan. This is pretty thoughtful of you."

"Eh," Morgan awkwardly rubbed the back of his head as if he weren't expecting Neal to sincerely thank him. He really didn't know much about this past friend of Chuck's, but he seemed like a great enough guy. Even for someone who would betray his friend (ish, it ended up being a good reason. Sorta.) Morgan decided that Neal was a decent enough fellow. "You want coffee?" He stood up. "I think I'll go on a coffee run."

Neal nodded, focusing on the laptop, carefully scrolling through until he found an episode to watch. "Yeah, though the hospital stuff can't be too appetizing."

"Caffeine is caffeine."

"True."

Morgan grinned a bit, before repositioning Honey-Boo-Boo to watch over Neal while he was gone, explaining that someone needed to keep an eye on the con man. He left the hospital room, whistling tunelessly, deciding that he might actually become friends with this Neal fellow.

He didn't notice the nurse slipping into Neal's room.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello, all! No new characters until Chapter 9, so you're free to just read on. Also, I don't own any of these shows, just in case you forgot that I'm a poor, starving college student. I'm updating early as birthday present for my mother. (Not that she reads this, but, hey, it's as good an excuse as any...)**

* * *

Neal didn't bother looking up from the laptop as the door creaked open. He was a little surprised that Morgan was back so soon, but he just figured that he had forgotten his wallet, or something of the like. "They won't give the coffee for free? Not even to someone with your face?" Neal asked sarcastically.

"Not really a fan of caffeine. It'll kill you, you know."

Neal's eyes jerked up at the unfamiliar voice. Not Morgan. He found himself face to face with an elderly lady. Definitely not Morgan. The initial alarm faded a bit, though Neal remained wary of this new visitor. "Do I know you?"

"No, but I'm not a huge fan of introductions. Not that you really need to know my name." The old lady was edging closer, her eyes gleaming. Almost ferociously, he realized. Neal reached out for the call button, but the lady moved surprisingly fast, her bony hand stopping Neal from grabbing the remote with the button on it. She was stronger than she looked, Neal discovered as he wrenched his hand from hers.

"Look, I don't even know who you are. Do you have the wrong room?"

The lady grinned, her yellowed teeth bared. "Neal Caffrey?" Neal just stared at her, but she continued. "I'm at the right place."

"What do you want?"

"You and your friends are nosing around in places you shouldn't be, seeing and meeting people you shouldn't. I'm here to give you a warning. Well, I'm here to give your friends a warning. Any last words?"

Neal blinked up at her. This night had gone from car to pavement to ambulance to hospital to Peter to Winters to Honey-Boo-Boo to evil old lady and Neal was still trying to figure out all that was going on. "You're going to kill me?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Caffrey, I'm going to kill you. Now are those your last words?"

"What do you want me to say, 'don't kill me?' 'I'm too young?' I don't have anything to say, cliché or otherwise," Neal remarked, letting the sarcasm nearly drip from his words. "Or maybe you want me to ask your evil plans?"

"You don't have to be sarcastic. I'm sorta new to this whole evil genius role. I'm usually the behind-the-scenes kinda gal. Anyway," she glanced at the watch on her wrist, "I've gotta get back home, so we're just going to make this quick."

She pulled out a gun. Neal looked up at her in disbelief. "You're going to shoot me? In a hospital? Really, I pegged you for the poison through the IV. Isn't that a lot easier? And less of a mess or worry about a squad of security guards chasing you."

"I don't have poison," the old lady complained. "Next time I need to kill someone in the hospital, I'll bring poison. But, you have to be shot."

The old lady brought the gun to level with Neal's head, but the door being slammed open had her lowering the firearm. "Neal, I—" Morgan cut off when he saw the elderly lady and the gun. "Ooo, evil grandma." Before anyone could react, Morgan had flung the coffee across the few feet that separated him and the elderly lady, so that it splashed across her face. She screamed, dropping the gun. Morgan shoved her away from Neal, his momentum hurtling them towards the window. Unable to stop himself or the old lady, they crashed into the window. Only quick reflexes kept Morgan from toppling out the open window. The old lady was not as lucky. Morgan peered out the window, trying to make out the old lady's form. He caught sight of her jogging towards the parking lot. "Spry for a grandma," Morgan muttered, before turning back to Neal.

"Thanks for that," Neal told Morgan, still slightly in shock over what had happened. It had occurred so fast.

"Eh, just doing my job." He glanced at the spilt coffee. "I'm not going for coffee trip numero dos. We'll just have to doze." Morgan bent and carefully picked up the gun, using a sheet so as to not get his finger prints on the weapon. "Casey can probably finger print this tomorrow. Then we can find out who your ancient assailant was."

"What do we do about the window?" Neal asked, pointing to the open window. A breeze was playing with the curtain, giving the scene a creepy ambiance that belonged in all classic horror movies.

"Get security up here, I guess. I mean, we have to tell them that someone's deranged grandma attacked you. Or tried to. Of course, your heroic Morgan came to the rescue. Guess your Mozzie buddy got himself into some deep trouble over at the assisted living center."

After pressing the call button and explaining to the frightened nurse their run in with granny-on-a-rampage (GOAR for short) as Morgan called her, security arrived in a timely fashion. "So, what happened?" the guard asked. He was one of those larger men who look like the extent of their security experience has all taken place behind a desk with a box of Dunkin Donut's in the top drawer.

"I went to get coffee," Morgan began. "Not that this hospital sludge is even fit to be called coffee, but I left the room. When I get back, this evil granny is standing over Neal, threatening to kill him. So, I do what any good friend that has a sense of taste regarding coffee would do: I splashed my coffee over her. Then I tackled her, to get her away from Neal, you know, and we sorta ran into the window. Well, I sorta ran into it; she sorta ran through it. And when I looked out the window to see if she was okay, I saw her running in the direction of the parking lot. So, we called you."

"What's your side?" the security guard asked Neal.

"Yeah, like what Morgan was saying, he left to get us coffee. I was watching Star Trek and this lady came in and started threatening to kill me. She had a knife. Luckily, Morgan came in just then."

"Had you ever seen her before?" the guard asked. "Did you know her by chance?"

Neal shook his head. "Never. She might have just been deranged, or something of the sort. I don't think I want to press charges, regardless. She didn't hurt me."

The security guard looked up hesitantly. "Are you sure? She did attack you."

Neal shrugged. He was planning on giving her a stern talking to once they found Mozzie; she had to be involved in his friend's disappearance. "Nah, I'm fine. I don't think she was all there, if you know what I mean."

The guard nodded, finally consenting with Neal's decision. "Your call, man. We'll have you transferred to a different room. A broken window will get cold."

"Thanks," Neal said softly, resettling back in his pillow. He was ready to sleep; there had been more than enough excitement for one day. Besides, he had Morgan and Double B watching over him, if anyone else tried to attack him. Not that Double B was much help, but the thought still made him smile.

* * *

Hardison carefully readjusted his ear bud, making sure it wouldn't be seen by anyone he happened to come across. After what had happened to Neal, Nate was taking no chances with his team. Ear buds were a necessity now. Hardison wasn't overly worried. He didn't think that Phyllis and this Sid fellow would connect him to Neal. And even if they did, he knew that Elliot would be waiting behind the corner, disguised as a homeless man, to rescue him. Hardison thought that Elliot had only volunteered for this position on the off-chance that he was able to punch a couple people.

"Okay," Nate began, as Hardison took the camera, prepping for his job as cameraman. "Be careful, alright. These people are dangerous."

"Dangerous enough to send their grandma after Neal," Hardison agreed. He still found it slightly amusing that that GORE—or whatever Morgan was calling her—had been the one sent to kill Neal.

"Yes, but now that they didn't succeed in killing Neal, they'll probably send someone a little more experienced to kill you."

"They're not going to kill me," Hardison responded confidently. "They don't even know I'm involved with Neal. If they want to kill anyone, it'd be Sophie. She's the one who asked them their names."

Elliot grumbled, "Yeah, well, just be careful. I don't want to have to rescue your sorry excuse for a cameraman."

"You're just upset because you haven't been able to attack anyone on this job yet."

"It's been one day, Hardison. I don't expect to have attacked anyone yet."

Hardison shrugged, grinning. "Morgan, that small bearded fellow, has already attacked someone. Are you, maybe, a little bit jealous?"

"No, and if you don't shut up, I'll attack some idiot cameraman right now. Neal's buddy's abductors won't even need to."

"Dude. Be kind," Hardison grinned. He checked his phone quickly, making sure he had ample time to get to the Voracious Vegan before Phyllis got off at her shift; it sure was convenient that she always ended at 7:30. Hoisting the camera on his shoulder, Hardison brushed past Elliot, only pausing to high five Parker, who was concentrating on some game on her phone. "Wish me luck!"

Parker barely looked up from her phone, only pausing to high five him. "Good luck, though I'm the one who needs it. This demonic owl thing is harder to defeat than expected."

Saluting Nate and Sophie, who were seated at Neal's table, discussing possible cons that they could implement once they discovered, Hardison left the building, Elliot close on his heel. Chuck and Sarah had dropped by for a lunch and to talk to Nate, but they had left about half an hour earlier to go get Neal, who would be released from the hospital shortly. Casey had, begrudgingly, gone with them.

It was a short drive over to the Voracious Vegan, but Elliot had the taxi driver drop them off a couple blocks away. "Come on, man," Hardison complained. "It's one thing for you to get out early and walk, since you're all muscly and everything. But, me? I wouldn't've minded being dropped off at the front of the diner. Honestly, man, if I'm all out of breath when Phyllis comes out or something and it screws up the con, I'm blaming you."

"You've got half an hour. I think you'll be fine," Elliot growled. "I'm going to go around the long way. I'll be around the building, so I can't see what's happening. If anything starts going on, you need to tell me."

Hardison rolled his eyes, but set off on his own. He had just reached the Voracious Vegan and had pulled out the camera to start getting a few shots, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Nearly dropping the camera, Hardison whipped around, coming face to face with Sid, if that was even his name. "What're you doing?" Sid asked.

From Hardison's ear, he could hear Elliot asking, "Is that Sid? Already? What's he doing there?"

"Getting some extra shots for the broadcast tomorrow. We're doing a special on that guy that was hit by the car, Neal Caffrey." As he was speaking, Hardison carefully rearranged the camera so that it was angled up to capture Sid's face. Once he was sure that he had gotten a good enough shot, Hardison swung the camera away, so that Sid wouldn't notice what he had done. "Anyway, I think I've got what I need. Unless you want to be in a shot, of course," Hardison offered.

"I'd actually like your assistance with something."

"Say no," Elliot commanded.

"Look, man, I'd love to help, but I've still got to piece together this special and then my girlfriend thinks we need to have some romantic dinner or something, which I'm going to have to pay for and my mom thinks I need to call her since it's her birthday and really it's just not a great time for me to be Good Samaritanin' all over the place.

Sid seemed to grin a bit. "Call your girl and tell her you'll need a raincheck."

"What—" Hardison managed, before someone tackled him from behind, slamming him into the ground. His head rang uncomfortably and the camera skittered across the sidewalk, ending up somewhere near the opening door of the Voracious Vegan. From his ear bud, Hardison could hear Elliot shouting at him to hold on, that he'd be there. Two men grabbed him, hoisting him towards a black SUV, the typical bad guy car, Hardison realized unhumorously. He tried to fight off whoever was carrying him to what looked to be inevitable doom, but these men were stronger. One of the men lifted a gun near his head and Hardison barely had time to understand what was happening before everything went black.

* * *

 **Just a quick note: I'm not that author who refuses to update until I receive a certain number of reviews. I feel as if that punishes me just as much as it punishes you. But, reviews are freakin' awesome. I don't care if you just want to give me advice on life or a smiley face or anything. It's not like it's even difficult, so review if you want the power to make my day even better. Thank's everyone!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Embarrassingly** **enough, I had to be reminded it was Tuesday. My bad... Thanks for the heads up, ninja reviewer! We've officially hit the halfway mark. Woot! Anyway, no new characters 'til next chapter. Enjoy.**

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Elliot swore angrily as he rounded the corner of the street, coming into view of the Voracious Vegan. He hadn't had time to get into position before Sid had confronted Hardison. As soon as he had heard Hardison hit the ground, he had taken off running, but he hadn't been fast enough. He hadn't even caught sight of the license plate, let alone the actual car that had whisked the hacker away. "Dammit, Hardison," Elliot growled, grabbing the camera from off the ground. Maybe, if they were lucky, Hardison had managed to get Sid's face on camera. If not, this whole kidnapping was for naught.

Pulling out his cell phone (why hadn't Elliot gotten the whole team to wear their ear buds; they could be on their way to help him now) Elliot quickly called Nate. He picked up after three rings. "Nate, we've got a serious problem."

"What's happened?" Nate asked. He could hear Elliot's heavy breathing, as if he had been running. Something was definitely up.

"They got Hardison. Track his ear bud. And come pick me up, once you get a hit on his location."

Nate softly swore. "We should have had more back up."

"We don't have time for regrets, Nate. We need to find him now!"

"I'm getting a taxi now. Sophie's on the laptop, searching for his tracker. We'll be there momentarily."

Elliot stood where he was, clutching the phone tightly against his ear. This hadn't turned out right at all. He was supposed to have Hardison's back; he was supposed to be there to protect his friend. And now Hardison was gone. They had tried to kill Neal, who was to say they wouldn't do the same to Hardison. Morgan wouldn't be there to miraculously walk in and save the day this time.

A taxi pulled to the curb where Elliot was standing, the window rolling down to show Nate, his face taught with worry. "Get in, Elliot. We've got a hit. We need to hurry." Elliot didn't waste any time jumping into the taxi, taking a quick head count. The only people in the taxi were Nate and Casey. And now Elliot. In other words, the three men were quite cramped.

"Where is he?" Elliot asked as he wedged himself against the door to avoid crushing Nate.

Nate was gripping Hardison's laptop tightly, his elbows pinioned to his side, limiting nearly all movement. "A couple miles farther," Nate responded. "They've stopped moving. It looks like they're near a strip of warehouses."

"Abandoned, I presume?" Elliot growled.

"Of course," Nate replied, "Where else would they take him?"

"Just once, I'd like to see a villain who takes his victim somewhere unique; the abandoned warehouse gimmick is way too overused," Elliot muttered, cracking his knuckles in anticipation. If those men had hurt Hardison…

It wasn't long before the taxi pulled up in front of the strip of warehouses Nate had detailed. To keep the taxi within the vicinity, should Hardison need to be transported somewhere quickly, Nate gave the taxi driver a hundred, instructing him to remain a block away and await their return. He carefully tucked the camera under the seat, hoping that Hardison had at least got the man's face on camera.

As they walked to the warehouse, Casey carefully cocked his gun, reacquainting himself with the feel of the weapon. Noticing Elliot's glance at the handgun, Casey muttered, "Hey, we don't know how many people we're up against. I'm going to knock the odds in my favor, whether it takes a gun or not."

Elliot decided to back down from the fight in Casey's voice, carefully responding, "I don't care, man; it's your decision."

Casey grunted in response, but didn't make any further attempt at a conversation and/or fight. The trio drew nearer to the warehouse where Nate had pinpointed Hardison's ear bud. Upon reaching the door, though, they realized that they had no plan, no con, nothing. Elliot looked at Nate expectantly, who simply shrugged his shoulders. "Uh, I'll just wait outside while you two, you know, get Hardison."

Elliot rolled his eyes at the impromptu plan. "Excellent idea, boss," he muttered sarcastically.

"Hey, you got a better plan?" When Elliot didn't respond, Nate continued, "That's what I thought. Anyway, you two go, uh, knock out some bad guys?" Nate finished weakly.

"Just shut up," Elliot muttered, motioning to Casey to cover his back, before using his fingers to count down when he'd kick open the door. The kick against the door frame instantly shattered the termite-ridden wood, the nasty little bugs scurrying every which way to escape Elliot's wrath. Beyond the soft pattering of wood falling from the shattered door frame, there was no sound.

Casey peered past Elliot's form into the darkness. "Your technology got it wrong?"

"We'll search the rooms," Elliot replied, shoving forward and brushing splinters and squirming insects from his shoulders.

Casey merely shrugged, but followed the hitter regardless. Following Elliot's familiar tense shoulders brought back plenty of memories; they really did make a good team. And with Elliot by his side, he didn't really need a gun. He didn't need to depend on himself. Casey nearly smiled because he was finally understanding. The guns he used were what had his back, but working with Elliot Spencer again? Elliot had his back. Casey stopped in the middle of the hallway, staring at the weapon in his hand. Out of his peripherals, he noticed Elliot turning to see what was holding him up. "Don't really need this for this kind of job," Casey muttered, dropping the gun to the floor, watching it clatter against the cement floor.

Elliot gave him a strange look, "Casey," he began.

"John," Casey interrupted. "Now, shouldn't we be searching for your insufferable hacker?"

Hiding what could have been called a smile, Elliot turned away, beginning the search again. "You're right… John," he said, slowly opening the nearest door.

Of course, this happy healing of their relationship would only be interrupted by a tirade of cussing. Elliot quickly motioned for Casey to stand back, carefully peering into the not empty room. There were probably ten buff, bodyguard sort of men standing around the room, looking mildly disgruntled, but otherwise bored out of their minds. But their eyes were quickly drawn to the center of the room, where Sid was currently shouting at the ground. No, scratch that. At Hardison, who was curled up on the ground. "How are you involved with Neal Caffrey?"

"I don't even know the guy," Hardison grunted. "Told you already, 'm just the camera guy."

Sid shook his head, strolling carelessly around Hardison. To Elliot, he looked like some predator sizing up their next meal. Not good. "See, here's the thing, Mr. Walter," he spat out the name, further convincing Eliot that Sid hadn't bought a single one of Hardison's lies. "I don't entirely believe you. You probably don't know this, but I didn't have the grandest of childhoods. I was bullied constantly and my best friend ended up pushing me off the top of the slide. He got his just desserts, may he rest in peace. But, the point is, I have trust issues. I expect people to tell me the truth and when they don't?" Sid shrugged. "You end up like Steve, may he rest in peace."

"B-but, sir!" Hardison exclaimed, "I am telling you the truth! I'm just the cameraman. I don't know that Caffrey guy; it's just for the channel!"

"You're a good liar, I'll give you that," Sid muttered, staring down at Hardison disdainfully. He glanced up at the nearest bodybuilder type guy. "Try to make it look like an accident, please." Without a glance back at the man on the floor, Sid left the room.

"What? No! Come back!" Hardison screamed, shielding his head as the bodyguards began enclosing him.

Elliot didn't need any further sign to jump in. The first guy was out before he even knew what hit him. Beside him, Elliot could hear Casey's heavy breathing as he, too, knocked one of the men to the ground. Hardison briefly made eye contact with Elliot, shooting him a grin, before Elliot was flung back in the fray by one of the baddies grabbing him by his shirt collar. Elliot swung his head forward, slamming into the man's forehead. He swayed, but his grip held tight and before Elliot could further weaken the bodyguard's grip, he was grabbed from behind by two more meatheads. A few feet away, Elliot could see that Casey had found himself in much the same situation. Great. Just great.

Sid reentered the room, grinning. "And let me guess," he began, staring straight at Elliot. "This is the other camera guy?" His eyes turned to Casey. "You, I do know. Caffrey's friend. How could I forget someone so, uh, are you going for intimidating?" Ignoring Casey's angry growl, Sid turned back to Hardison. "So, it seems like you did lie to me."

"Look, man, we're just looking for that Mozzie fellow. Whatever trouble Mozzie's landed himself in, we don't want no part in that. So, just tell us where he is and we'll just go our separate ways. Fair enough?"

"That's a nice enough proposition, it truly is, but I really can't let any of you leave here alive tonight."

"Oh, sure you can," Hardison disagreed. "I mean, I know I'm not gonna talk. And Elliot will respect your privacy and Casey, well, he mostly grunts anyway, so you don't really have to worry about him telling—"

Hardison's sentence was abruptly ended by a hard kick to his jaw, snapping his head back against the concrete. "Shut up, will you?" Sid muttered, before kicking him again in the side, aiming for the kidney. Glancing back to catch Elliot's eye, Sid began kicking the hacker over and over again. Elliot struggled against his captors, throwing elbows and kicks and even biting the man's hand on his shoulder, but to no avail.

Casey, on the other hand, had managed to slip out of the grip of one of the men and soon had the both men on the ground, unconscious. With a short glance shot at Elliot, Casey turned tail and fled the room, leaving a very restrained Elliot having to figure out a way to get him and a now very injured Hardison out. Elliot angrily shoved himself against his captors, but he wasn't going anywhere and Hardison had begun screaming for him. The anguish was getting to be too much and Elliot's vision was beginning to turn red. Hardison wasn't supposed to get hurt. Elliot wasn't supposed to let Hardison get hurt.

It was probably the first gun shot that immobilized Elliot in shock. But the second shot had him jerking out of the equally shocked bodyguards' grips. Glancing quickly behind him, Elliot caught Casey's grin, as he let off another shot, a new bodyguard falling to the ground. Grinning grimly, Elliot turned back to Hardison and Sid, who was currently looking back at Casey, his face torn between shock and fear. Sid's time was up and he realized it. Then, Sid swung his eyes to Elliot, who clenched his fists in anticipation of attacking Hardison's attacker. Without a second thought, Sid took off running, skidding out of the room. Elliot nearly went off after him, but decided against it, turning to Hardison instead.

"Dammit, Hardison," he muttered, taking in his friend's injuries. Elliot was no doctor, but he could tell that it was bad. The kid's breaths were shallow and he hadn't reacted to Elliot's voice. Not good. Not good at all.

By this point, Casey had finished taking down the room of baddies and had knelt down beside Elliot, gazing down at Hardison. "That's the last time I leave my gun," Casey growled.

Elliot choked back a laugh at Casey's comment, guiltily wondering if he was the cause that Casey had left his firearm behind. And if so, was it his fault that Hardison was here, unconscious? Was all of this Elliot's fault? He hadn't been close enough to stop Hardison from being abducted and he had been the reason Casey had left his gun behind. Hardison could die because of Elliot's mistakes. And, wasn't that the cold, ugly truth? Hardison could die. Die. And Elliot would be the cause of his friend's premature death.

Elliot would kill Sid.

* * *

Elliot didn't even try to stop the punch from landing, quite satisfied to hear the cracking of cartilage as the nose crunched upon impact. "Woah, dude!" Elliot could hear Morgan shouting at him to stop, just stop, but he wasn't going to stop. Not when Hardison could be dying. Not when Hardison was dying.

"Elliot!" Someone had grabbed him, yanking him away from his enemy. "Elliot, listen to me," Nate commanded, looking the hitter in the eye. He hadn't expected Elliot to completely fly off like this. "This isn't Neal's fault."

"It is his fault. If he hadn't come to us with this job, Hardison wouldn't be dying," Elliot growled, glaring at Neal, who was gripping his nose painfully, trying to stem some of the bleeding.

"Dying?" Parker asked quietly, getting up from the couch where she had been reclining.

Nate looked heavenward, silently cursing Elliot's impetuousness. This wasn't how he had hoped it would go. He, Elliot, and Casey had carefully gathered Hardison and taken him back to Neal's apartment. But, of course, before they could remove Hardison from the backseat of the taxi, Elliot had taken off, fury burning in his eyes. Nate had barely caught up to him when Elliot broke Neal's nose. "He's not dying," Nate began, but Elliot interrupted him.

"You don't know that."

"We need to get him in here. Will someone help Casey and I carry him into the apartment?"

"Not the hospital?" Parker asked, a bit of fear glinting against her words.

Nate sighed. "We can't risk it. They already attacked Neal. They'll definitely go for Hardison if we take him there."

"What are we supposed to do?" Parker exclaimed. "Just let him die on the floor of Neal's apartment? If he's like what Elliot is insinuating, Hardison needs medical attention, now!"

"I know. I know. But we can't take him to the hospital. We need to find some sort of doctor that we can trust."

"Like who? Where are we going to find a doctor that'll just drop everything to help us?"

Sophie spoke up, reaching for her phone. "I think I know a guy."

* * *

 **K, ya'll. I'm about ready to start working on my next fic. I've got rough sketches for a Psych/Leverage, a National Treasure/Sahara, and a Royal Pains story. If you have any opinion at all, shoot me a message or review or homing pigeon. Otherwise, I'll just flip a coin or something. Much love from your favorite ostrich!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Finally, our last set of new characters!**

 **Hank: He's a doctor that works in the Hamptons, going house to house. His company is called HankMed and was started with the help of his little brother Evan.**

 **Evan: He used to be a CPA accountant, but after Hank was in a bad spot in his life, he took him to the Hamptons and they both started over with HankMed.**

 **Anyway, the action starts to pick up a bit more with the following chapters. This is basically a filler/introduction of Hank and Evan.**

* * *

"Hello, this is Evan R. Lawson, CFO of HankMed. How can we help you feel better today?"

Hank Lawson, concierge doctor, was finally setting his bag down after a long day of broken arms and jelly beans up noses and scraped knees, but Evan held up his finger in a quick wait-a-moment gesture. He rolled his eyes as his younger brother readjusted the phone to grab a pen and write something down. "Did you grab pizza? I think I'm gonna go grab us some pizza," Hank called out, but Evan gave him an angry look and mouthed "wait a sec."

"Yeah, but that really sounds like he should go to the hospital… Yes, I understand that, but I-… No, yeah, we do do house calls, but-… Look, Ms. Stravinsky… Okay, okay. We'll be there. … Yes, as fast as possible, I understand. … Okay, we're leaving now. Bye."

"No," Hank began. "We are not leaving now. I just got back. It's been a really long day and I just want a couple slices of pizza and TV. Evan, no. I can't." Hank reached for his bag to put it away.

Evan quickly crossed the room, grabbing Hank's bag and holding it out of reach. "Nuh-uh, Hank. This one's important. It's Ms. Stravinsky."

"I don't even know a Ms. Stravinsky," Hank complained, trying to grab his bag back. Unluckily for him, Evan was taller and could hold the medical bag completely out of Hank's reach.

"Don't you remember? Our first summer here, she fell and almost broke her ankle during that giant party at the Fieldstone's place. You ended up helping her wrap it up and told her you'd need to check back on it in a couple days, but she had left by then."

Hank nodded. "Ok, yes, I do remember Ms. Stravinsky. Did she twist her ankle again?"

"No, apparently her boyfriend was mugged and she wants you to come take a look. Make sure he's healing right or something like that. Anyway, she's a whale, Henry. A huge whale. She said she'd double what you expected to be paid as long as we got over there immediately." Evan noticed Hank was considering his plea, so he continued, "Her boyfriend really needs your help. And we can get pizza after giving her boy toy a once over. Come on, Hank, please?"

"Fine," Hank agreed. "Is she back in the Hamptons?"

"Not exactly," Evan admitted. "They're in Manhattan. I'll drive," Evan announced, swiping Hank's keys off the counter before Hank could.

Hank followed his brother outside, slightly bemused. "Manhattan? That's like a two hour drive."

Evan grinned at his brother from the front seat of Hank's Saab. "Two hours, yeah right. Ms. Stravinsky said she'd pay us more if we got there earlier. I can almost taste the money."

"Taste the money? That's disgusting, Evan."

"Whatever," Evan replied, readjusting his sunglasses, before quickly driving the car down the driveway. A rich lady's boyfriend in trouble? This was exactly what HankMed was created for.

* * *

"This is the place?" Hank asked, squinting at the well-lit house in the dark as Evan parked the car across from a very nice house.

Evan glanced up at the building, turning the car off. "Yeah. This is the address she gave me." Evan pushed his watch in Hank's face. "See, an hour and a half. Told you I'd be faster than two hours."

"Yeah, well, I'll be driving home," Hank responded, grabbing his bag and following Evan to the door, where his little brother was currently ringing the doorbell.

There was no movement for a minute and Evan had pulled out the address to make sure that they were at the right place, when the door was swung open and Ms. Stravinsky was hurriedly waving them in. "Hank, Edward, welcome."

"Evan," Evan corrected, but followed her in anyway.

"Oh, yes, Evan. My bad. I've been pretty stressed, you know. Uh, Frank's upstairs. I'm rather surprised you got here so quickly."

"Our clients' well-being is our upmost concern," Evan explained. "We get to our clients as fast as we possibly can."

Ms. Stravinsky nodded. "Yes, well, thank you. Frank is starting to look worse, so if you could-?" She gestured to a room up a flight of stairs. "He's in there. A… a couple of our friends are up there, too. Just ignore them. I'm going to go make some tea. You want any?"

Hank smiled obligingly. "I'm good, but thank you." He made his way up the stairs, Evan trailing behind, admiring the fanciness of the house. Hank opened the door, fully expecting to see Ms. Stravinsky's Frank laying on the bed, healing perfectly well, besides having a very pushy girlfriend who was overworried about a few minor injuries. What he didn't expect was the African American man (Stravinsky's boyfriend, presumably) with blood streaked down his side and what looked to be a very nasty broken nose. Hank immediately went into what Evan liked to call "full doctor mode."

The people in the room—a young blonde girl clutching Frank's hand, a man angrily pacing the room, two men quietly conversing in the corner—looked up upon Hank's entrance. "Who are you?" the blonde asked.

"I'm a doctor, so if you could excuse me?" Hank asked, making his way to the injured man. He quickly examined the man's injuries. A mugging, Evan had said. A very bad one, by the looks of it.

"Will he be okay?" the pacing man asked, his voice gruff.

"It looks like he has a couple broken ribs. His nose is definitely broken. What I'm most worried about is whether his broken ribs have punctured anything internally, such as his lungs or any arteries, blood vessels. How long has he been unconscious?"

"Uh, almost two hours. He hasn't woken up since the… mugging," the blonde whispered.

Hank looked up at that. "Okay, about that. What really happened to Frank?"

The blonde gave him a weird look, but quickly responded. "Uh, Frank? He was mugged."

"I'm not going to go to the authorities, if that's what you're worried about. But as Frank's doctor, I need to know exactly what happened to him."

The blonde glanced at the man who had been pacing. The man shrugged, before beginning. "He was attacked. One of the guys beat him up pretty badly."

Hank nodded, glad they'd told him the truth. "He needs to go to the hospital."

The man shook his head. "It's not safe there. You either need to help him or he's going to die. We don't have another option."

"Okay, okay. I'll do my best, but I'm going to need some space and time. Do you mind?"

"Of course not." The pacing man gestured for everyone to leave, gently putting his arm around the shoulders of the blonde girl and leading her out of the room.

"Okay, what do you need me to do?" Evan asked, coming to Hank's side.

Hank glanced over at his brother. "Nothing."

"Nothing? But Divya's always helping you. So, just pretend I'm Divya, only I'm male and less-educated and super hot and also your brother."

Hank shook his head. "As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I don't really need your help. I'm just going to wrap his ribs, reset his nose, and make sure he doesn't have a concussion."

Evan nodded slowly. "Sounds good." Evan stood there for a moment, nodding, as he watched his brother pull the man's shirt up. "Are you sure?" he suddenly blurted out. "Because I have literally nothing else to do."

"Yes, Evan, I'm sure," Hank responded, slightly exasperated.

"Okay, fine. Fine. I'll just go somewhere else. Somewhere where I'm actually wanted."

Hank didn't even bother responding, quickly finishing setting up an IV for Frank. He heard the quiet snick of the door being softly shut behind his brother, but turned his attentions back to his patient. He really wished they would take Frank to the hospital, but he'd have to make do with what he had here.

Evan slowly went down the stairs, heading to where he assumed the kitchen was. Ms. Stravinsky had said she'd be making tea and maybe he could get a cup. That would at least give him a reason to see if Ms. Stravinsky would be interested in supporting his company. She was the reason he had decided to come, he might as well work his magic. He was about to step into the kitchen, when he heard his name. Evan quickly stopped, leaning up against the wall to hear what they were saying about him. Maybe that pretty blonde girl thought he was—

"Do you trust the brother, Edward?" a man's voice asked.

"Evan," Ms. Stravinsky corrected, much to Evan's pleasure. "And, frankly, I didn't expect him to come along with Hank. Hank, I trust. Evan… I'm not so sure about him."

A deeper, growlier man's voice broke in, "So, we're going to have to find a way to get rid of him without Hank realizing what we're doing."

Oh. Bad. Bad. Evan quickly backed up, stopping when a voice whispered in his ear, "Eavesdropping, huh? I'm not a huge fan of eavesdroppers."

Evan whirled around, coming face to face with the man who'd been pacing earlier. "Uh, I wasn't eavesdropping. I was just, uh, tying my shoe!" To prove his new lie, Evan quickly bent on one knee and reknotted his shoelace. "See, all better now."

The man gripped Evan's arm harshly, dragging him into the kitchen, before announcing, "Guess who I found listening in on your conversation."

"Please don't kill me," Evan whimpered. Well, not whimpered, because Evan didn't whimper. But, it sure was close to a whimper.

"Seems like we need to trust him now," a man with curly brown hair commented. He stood up and approached Evan. "Can we trust you?"

"Oh, yes," Evan agreed, nodding emphatically. "I won't tell a soul your secret. Or secrets, you know, if you have more than one."

The man with the curly hair nodded. "My name is Nathan Ford," he introduced himself. Evan noticed a couple of the people in the kitchen were shooting him unsure looks, but Nathan Ford continued on. "And this," he gestured to Ms. Stravinsky, "is Sophie Devereaux."

"No," Evan interrupted. "That's Ms. Stravinsky. We've met already."

"Actually," Ms. Stravinsky replied, "my real name is Sophie Devereaux."

"O…K…" Evan responded.

The man still gripping Evan's arm released it. "I'm Elliot Spencer." He pointed to the blonde that had been sitting with Frank earlier. "That's Parker. And your brother is upstairs helping Hardison."

"So… Frank was a made-up name, too?"

"Yes. We didn't want the wrong people to find out who we were or where we were," Elliot explained.

From across the room, a black-haired man rose from the table he was sitting at. "My name is Neal Caffrey. This, here, is Chuck Bartowski and his wife, Sarah Bartowski. Morgan Grimes. And Casey." He shrugged his shoulders. "And that's the team."

"Team?" Evan asked.

Neal nodded. "My best friend, Mozzie, was abducted a couple days ago. I asked Chuck's team to help me. Casey got Elliot to bring in his team and now you're here and it's all an effort to get Mozzie back safely."

Evan was about to comment on that, when Hank walked into the room. "Frank's going to be fine," Hank announced. "He'll just need to stay in bed for about the next week. After that, he can get up and move a bit, he'll just have to be extra careful."

"Hardison," Evan corrected.

Hank gave his brother a strange look. "What are you talking about?"

"Hardison. The man's name is Hardison. Not Frank."

Before Hank could call his brother an idiot or anything of the sort, Nate spoke up. "Your brother, Evan, is right, Hank. We weren't completely honest with you up front."

"I'll explain," Evan announced. "See, Hank, this is Neal. His best friend goes missing. He calls in these guys to help him find his friend, Mozzie. Hardison, the guy upstairs gets hurt, so now we're involved. And, we're not allowed to tell anybody. In other words, we've joined the team to find Mozzie." Evan turned to Neal. "I'm totally psyched to help you find your partner in crime!"

"Literally," Neal replied, smiling a bit.

"Uh, what?"

"We're art thieves," Neal expounded.

"Art thieves, huh? That's, uh, that's—" Evan quickly turned to Hank, whispering, "Hank, we've gotta get out of here. These are criminals!"

Neal grinned. "We don't kill people, if that's what you're worried about."

Evan crossed his arms, unbelievably. "Yeah, like that's true. When I, uh, wasn't eavesdropping, you said that you were going to get rid of me. That sounds a little murderous to me."

"We meant we were going to figure out some reason why you would head back to the Hamptons; we weren't going to kill you," Nate explained.

"Yeah, right."

"Look," Neal began, "We need your help. Both you and Hank. Would you be willing to assist us in rescuing Moz?"

Evan shrugged his shoulders, speaking for both him and Hank. "We don't have anything better to do."


	10. Chapter 10

**Good morning, everyone! I don't really have anything to say, so go ahead and just enjoy the chapter. I know, I know, I'm boring and not very witty, but it's too early and I still have homework that I should be doing before my first class.**

* * *

"Actually, I have better things to be doing," Hank quickly argued, completely cutting down Evan's offer. He glanced at his watch. "If I hurry, I could probably still make it back in time to get a bit of sleep before…" He looked up noticing the looks everyone around the room was giving him.

Evan, especially, looked disappointed. "C'mon, man. His friend needs help. You're just going to leave Neal hanging like this?" Hank gave Evan an I-have-a-job-and-so-do-you-so-we-can't-just-go-around-saving-people,-Evan look. But Evan refused to relent. "Okay, fine. You go back to the Hamptons. I'm going to help them find Mozzie."

"Evan," Hank replied. "I don't think you should be doing this." When Evan rolled his eyes, Hank continued. "One man has been abducted and the other was beaten. This isn't safe and I don't want you involved."

"Oh. I see. You don't think I can handle something like this."

"No, it's not like that—" Hank began, but Evan kept talking.

"I can do this. And I will." Evan turned to Neal. "What do you need me to do?"

Neal glanced quickly at Hank, noting the faint annoyance in the older brother's face, but addressed Evan. "We could definitely use your help. If you want to take a seat," Neal offered, gesturing to an open chair near Chuck, "I'll go through what we've discovered." Evan quickly sat down and Hank, Neal noted, simply hovered behind his younger brother's seat. "Mozzie's real name is Teddy Winters, which we have discovered may be linked to why he was abducted. Hardison, before he was attacked, managed to get a clear picture of who we believe is Mozzie's abductor: Sid Winters. We put that picture through the system and he is, in fact, Sidney Winters. This is leading us to believe that Sid is somehow related to Mozzie. We don't know for sure, because the only link to family Mozzie has is his name, seeing as he was left at an orphanage when he was only a few months old."

"Also," Chuck spoke up this time, "we managed to fingerprint the GOAR that attacked Neal. Her fingerprints are not in the system, but we could possibly use them to frame her for something."

"Gore?" Evan asked, not understanding.

Morgan grinned. "Granny On A Rampage. Neal was nearly taken out by an elderly lady."

"Anyway," Nate began, "Chuck's been using Hardison's computer to track what Sid does habitually. He visits the bank every Friday morning and removes money from an account. If you're willing, we'd like to ask you, Evan, to track Sid."

"Oh, yeah, I'll totally do that. I'm an expert at following people without them—"

Nate shook his head. "Not follow him. That's way too dangerous." Nate held up a small button. "This is a tracker. If you can slip it in his pocket, then we can track where he goes and hopefully find Mozzie in the process."

Evan grinned. "Cool. I'll totally be able to do that!"

"Evan, I—" Hank began, but Evan quickly cut him off.

"Henry. I can do this."

Nate quickly added, "It's not like we'll be sending Evan out there alone. Neal, Elliot, and I will all be on site to make sure nothing happens." Nate smiled at Hank encouragingly. "Nothing's going to happen."

Hank begrudgingly gave in. "Fine, but Evan, you have to be careful. This guy seriously hurt Hardison. I don't want you to end up the same."

Morgan yawned. "This is great and I'm glad you're going to help us, Evan, but I'm tired. Can we please just go to bed?" The rest of the group, grinning slightly at Morgan, who could always be trusted to speak his mind, nodded and Neal took charge. June was in Chicago, at the moment, visiting an old friend, so Neal was given control of the entire house. Neal quickly directed people to separate rooms. Parker and Elliot both took the floor in Neal's room, neither wanting to leave Hardison alone for the night. Chuck and Sarah were given leave of June's bedroom. Casey and Morgan got the couches in the front room. Nate and Sophie were assigned the spare bedroom, while Neal took the floor of that room. Leaving Evan and Hank two couches in the living room near the rear of the house.

Hank shifted around on the couch, finding the velvety sofa too confining for his liking. He readjusted the cushion that he was utilizing as a pillow, not for the first time, wishing he was back at home with his own large, much more comfortable bed. Across the room, Hank could hear Evan shifting also. Hank had finally resettled himself and was drifting as close to the comfort as sleep as he could get, when, "Hank?"

"Yes, Evan?"

"Why did you decide to stay?"

"I don't know, Evan."

"You can go back to the Hamptons if you want to."

"It's okay. Hardison—that's his name, right?—still needs to be looked over again tomorrow. And if they're not going to bring him to the hospital, I'll feel better if I'm here to make sure he doesn't relapse." Hank noticed Evan remained quiet, so he added, "Though, the thought of sleeping on a real bed is very tempting."

Evan laughed quietly. "At least your feet aren't sticking up over the edge of the couch. Be thankful that you're short."

"Go to sleep, Evan."

"I can't with my feet up in the air like this!"

Hank rolled his eyes, deciding to ignore his brother.

"Hank? Hank?" Evan snorted. "It's impossible that you fell asleep that quickly. Hank, I know you're still awake. Hank. Haaaaaaank." Evan fell silent for a short while. "Fine, you win. See you in the morning."

"See you then."

"Hah!" Evan shouted. "I knew you weren't sleeping!"

Hank groaned softly, turning so that his head was buried in the corner of the couch. It would be a long night.

* * *

Evan readjusted his bowtie, admiring himself in Neal's mirror. "I look good, man," Evan began, turning to where Hank was checking over Hardison. "Don't you think this suit looks snappy on me?"

"I don't think you should be using the word 'snappy.'"

Barreling on, Evan continued, "It's pretty convenient that Chuck happens to be the same suit size as me." He stopped to admire himself a bit more, before finishing with, "Do I look like a spy?"

"No."

"Good, because I'm not supposed to appear to be a spy."

Hank rolled his eyes. "I'm trying to focus," he reminded his younger brother.

"I know, I know. But I'll be gone in a few minutes, so you might as well enjoy my company while you have it."

Neal entered his room, catching Evan's eye. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah, and I'm totally psyched for it. Do I look like a spy?" Evan asked Neal.

"Not really," Neal honestly replied, taking in the raw excitement radiating off the CFO of HankMed. He wasn't jaded enough to be a spy.

Evan pumped his fist happily. "Fantastic. I'm not supposed to look like a spy. That might warn Evil Mr. Sid about our plan." Evan grinned widely. "See you later, Hank!" Hank merely grunted, waving slightly as his over-excited brother followed Neal out the door.

At the base of the stairs, Nate and Elliot were quietly discussing how best to approach the bank. When they noticed Evan coming down the stairs, Nate offered a grin, holding out a small earbud. "Put this in your ear," he instructed, giving it to Evan, who immediately set about fitting it in his ear. "We'll be able to communicate to you through this. Plus, we can hear what you say."

"And," Elliot added, holding out a non-descript brown button, "this has a tracker embedded in it. Just find a way to get it on his person, whether you slip it in his pocket, or whatever your plan is, it needs to be with him when he leaves."

Evan carefully took the button, nodded seriously. "Don't worry. I can do this."

"In that case," Nate announced, "let's be off!"

The drive to the bank was mostly uneventful; the only exciting part was when Evan, who was driving Hank's car, was distracted by who he claimed was a spy driving by and nearly hit the elderly lady crossing the street. After that experience, the drive was quiet, Evan chagrined into attentive silence.

Upon the arrival at the bank, Nate took Evan to the side, quickly giving him some last minute advice. He warned him, once again, about how dangerous Sid was and how Evan would have to be extra careful. Evan grinned confidently, "This man has never seen me; he's not going to suspect me to be part of your little team. I'm Evan R. Lawson, CFO of HankMed, not some spy or criminal like you guys."

Nate agreed, before continuing, "Okay, now until Sid shows up, just sit in the bank. Don't look suspicious, but definitely keep an eye out for him."

Elliot jogged over. "He's already here!" he announced, jerking his head back toward the bank.

"What?" Nate exclaimed.

"Get in there!" Elliot shoved Evan toward the doors, before taking his place on the opposite side of the street.

Evan hesitated only a second before entering the bank. That morning, he had studied the picture they had of Sid Winters so he'd be able to recognize the man when he came across him. Now, Evan scanned the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who had attacked Hardison and had possibly abducted Mozzie. There, at the far corner of the room. Sid was stacking some papers to put in his briefcase. Evan was still deliberating how best to approach Sid, when the man stood up and walked past Evan. Cursing his missed chance, Evan was about to follow him or grab his shoulder or do something, when Sid's foot got caught on the edge of the carpet, sending him hurtling toward the ground. Sid managed to catch himself before his face hit the floor, but his briefcase wasn't as lucky. It popped open, papers flying everywhere. Here was his opportunity, Evan realized, quickly grabbing some of the papers.

"Here you go," Evan said, offering the stack of papers that he had collected to Sid, as he attempted to stand up. It didn't go very well; Sid's left leg was unable to hold any of his weight.

"Crap," Sid groaned, his face screwed up in pain as he tried to put his weight on his left leg. "Does anyone have a cane I could borrow?" he asked the people in the bank. No one moved to help him. Sid tried to take a step forward, but had to catch himself on the plush armchair near him. He then looked up and noticed Evan standing there, papers in hand. "Thank you, sir." Taking his papers, Sid paused to look outside. "My car is just out there in the front. If I could just make it there…"

"I'll help," Evan announced. This was even better. If he could help Sid get to his car, then it would be child's play to put the button in the car. "Here, if you just lean…" Evan instructed, guiding Sid's arm around his shoulder and helping take the weight off of his injured leg.

Slowly and carefully, Evan helped Sid limp out of the bank, towards the dark blue Honda Accord out front. It was old and the paint was beginning to chip away on the hood. "That's your car?" Evan asked, trying to make some sort of conversation.

"Yeah. I call her LaFonda the Honda. She's been in my family for a long time."

"Yeah?" Evan asked. Sid didn't seem like such a bad guy and if Evan hadn't seen how hurt Hardison was, he wouldn't have believed that this man could attack anyone.

Sid nodded. "It was my brother's car, but he bought a Mercedes and passed this one down to me. I'm not going to turn down a free car, you know. Especially since it still runs so well."

They had reached the car and Evan, upon Sid's instructions, opened the back door, to place the briefcase inside. He did so and quickly began fumbling for the button to toss in the backseat with the briefcase. It wasn't in his right pocket, where Evan was certain he had first put it. Hastily, Evan checked his left pocket. Then his back pockets and his jacket pockets, but it wasn't there. He must have dropped it back in the bank. Evan turned back, wondering if he could think up an excuse to go grab the button and not have Sid leave.

The last thing he was Sid's foot swinging up towards his head.


	11. Chapter 11

**I hope everyone is having a fabulous Tuesday! Midterms are over, so I can go back to finishing this story. Hopefully, I can have all the chapters written by the end of the month. Anyway, one new chapter for ya'll!**

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Elliot was across the street from the bank, Neal and Nate on either side of him on a small bench, newspapers distributed to all. Evan had entered the bank a few seconds ago. Now they just had to wait for him to get the button on Sid and exit the bank. Their rendezvous point was a few blocks away, on the off chance that Sid decided to watch and see where Evan was going, he wouldn't see that Evan was meeting up with them.

"How do you think he's doing?" Nate asked softly.

"I don't know," Neal replied. "Do you think we should have put him up to this? What he was telling you earlier is true; he's not a spy. He's just some accountant."

"You know just as well as I do that we didn't have another option," Nate pointed out. "It was either Evan or his brother."

"Shh!" Elliot hissed. "He's helping Sid."

"Why?" Neal asked, watching Evan help Sid limp towards his car.

Nate watched the scene unfold, slightly nervous. "Do you think Sid really got hurt?"

"Or is he faking?" Elliot finished grimly.

"I don't know, but Evan probably shouldn't be helping him to his car," Neal observed.

Elliot nodded. "If Sid tries anything, I'll be over there in a second. There isn't anything to worry about," Elliot muttered, carefully watching as Evan drew closer and closer to Sid's car.

Just as Evan stopped near the car and opened the door for Sid one of those dang UPS trucks pulled to a stop in front of the bench. "I can't see him!" Nate shouted. Elliot shot to his feet, but he tripped on Neal, who was also trying to stand. Nate quickly extricated himself from the tangled mess of Elliot and Neal and rushed around the truck.

Nothing.

Evan, Sid, and the car were gone.

Elliot and Neal stumbled to a stop beside Nate. "We need to track him. Now," Elliot growled.

The trio quickly made their way to where Hank's Saab was parked. Nate, stopped short of the door, patting himself down before cursing. "Evan has the keys," he admitted. "Can either of you hotwire a car?"

"Yes, but the doctor probably won't be too happy," Elliot muttered, taking his place in the driver's seat, fumbling with the wires as fast as he could.

"I think Hank would rather have his brother back than his car in pristine condition," Neal observed. "Speaking of which, who's going to tell him his brother was abducted?"

Nate ran his hand through his hair, silently urging Elliot to get the car running faster, while also considering Neal's words. "Maybe if we're lucky, we can find out where Evan is before Hank even notices his brother is missing. He'll probably be busy tending Hardison, anyway."

"I hope so," Elliot growled, grinning in triumph when the engine purred to life. "Get in," he commanded Neal and Nate, who obligingly hopped into the back seat, urging Elliot to step on it. The drive back was more eventful in that Elliot nearly hit three pedestrians, a dog, and a police officer. Only blind luck had them returning to Neal's apartment in one piece without a ticket.

After turning off the car, Elliot dashed into the apartment, nearly barreling into Sophie. "Excuse me," he muttered, bypassing her and continuing to the kitchen where they had last put the laptop after tracking Hardison. He quickly yanked it open, hitting the "on" button. Nothing happened. Elliot pressed the "on" button again. And again. And again. Still nothing. Elliot swallowed back his frustration, deciding to unplug it and then plug it back in. That's when he saw the problem. "Nate," he growled, angrily turning on the two men who had followed him in by this point, "you forgot to charge the laptop!"

"It just fled my mind after the whole Hardison incident!" Nate replied, trying to save face. "It's not my fault."

"It is—" Elliot began.

Neal quickly cut him off. "It doesn't matter whose fault it is, just plug the laptop in!"

Elliot plugged in the laptop, groaning aloud when the screen displayed "Restarting Computer… 10%." Nate and Neal were leaning forward from behind Elliot, urging him to, somehow, get the computer working faster. Just then, as fate would have it, Hank entered the kitchen.

"Good news, guys. Hardison was awake for a couple moments. I hope he'll completely wake up later—" Hank noticed the urgency practically sharpied across the trio's faces. He took in the fake smiles the three men were shooting him and the way they were unconsciously blocking the computer screen from his view. Suspicion and fear flared up in Hank's chest. "What's going on? Where's Evan?"

The three men stared silently at Hank for a few insanely long seconds before Nate spoke up. "Once we get this computer working, you'll be the first to know."

Hank's voice was low and what Neal assumed was meant to be deadly. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Glancing at his two companions, Neal finally admitted, "He was, uh, abducted also."

"By Sid?" Hank asked calmly.

Elliot marveled at how well Hank was taking the news. "Yes, but—"

"The same Sid that landed Hardison in the position he's in right now? Broken ribs and all?"

"Yes, that Sid, but—"

Hank angrily flung the nearest object within reach against the wall. The vase shattered, shards of glass sprinkling over the carpet. Clearly, Elliot realized, Hank was not taking it as well as he had assumed. "We are going to find him," Nate reassured Hank.

"Like how you found Hardison, beaten half to death?" Hank was breathing heavily now, barely keeping his rage in check.

"He's going to be fine," Neal said, stepping towards Hank.

Frankly, he should have expected the punch. Neal stumbled backwards, clutching his bleeding nose. Again? Behind him, Neal could hear Elliot snort back laughter. "Let's not get violent," Nate warned as he handed Neal a couple of tissues.

Morgan, of course, chose to walk in at this moment. "Neal! What happened to your nose? Did Elliot punch you again?"

Elliot grinned. "Nah, it was Hank this time."

"What's going on?" Chuck asked.

"Evan was kidnapped," Neal began, his voice nasally, "and Hank blames me."

Hank turned on Neal. "Well, yeah, I blame you. Who got us involved in this to begin with? Who convinced Evan to play spy for you? It sure seems like it is your fault."

"Hank, we're going to—"

A small chirp from the laptop brought everyone's attention back to the computer. "Finally," Nate murmured, as Elliot quickly went about to track the button.

"That's strange," Elliot announced to the now completely silent group. "He's back at the bank."

"Why would he return—" Nate cut himself off, the realization hitting him. "Evan must've dropped the button tracker."

"Oh," Hank began, angrily, "so you're telling me that you don't know where my brother is. At all. No clue whatsoever?"

Neal spoke up, taking the tissues from his nose. "He has the earbud. Can't you track that?"

Elliot nodded stiffly. "I forgot he had an earbud; he's been so quiet. I'll just pull up that data."

As Elliot got to work on tracking Evan's earbud, Chuck decided to break the silence. "I'm sure he's fine," he offered weakly.

"You're not sure," Hank retorted. "But he had better be."

The group reverted back to the awkward silence, each person limited to their thoughts. Elliot sighed, bringing everyone's attention to him. "According to his earbud, Evan is, uh, in the Atlantic Ocean. About five miles off the coast."

"Maybe there's an island?" Morgan suggested.

"Not according to Google Earth…" Elliot admitted quietly.

Hank quietly asked, "So, you're saying that Evan, my little brother, is—" he cut off, turning away.

"It would explain the silence on the coms," Neal said softly.

"I'm sorry," Nate offered, the words sounding hollow even to him.

"No. I refuse to believe that—" Hank cut himself off again. It wasn't possible. There was no way that his baby brother had—he couldn't even bring himself to think it. Any moment now, Evan would walk in and explain that they had decided to play a joke on Hank and it was all fake and Hank would glare at Evan and admonish him, saying that it wasn't funny and then he'd hug his brother and everything would be okay.

Evan didn't walk through the door.

Hank squeezed his eyes shut, blocking the room and its inhabitants (his brother's killers). He didn't know what to do. (It can't be real. It can't be happening.) Was he supposed to go back to the Hamptons and tell Divya what had happened? (Not dead. Couldn't possibly be dead.) How could he stand staying with Neal and Nate and the others? (Killed his brother. Killed Evan.) And the worst part was that he had known something like this could happen. Look what had happened to Hardison. (Look what had happened to Evan.) Hank had messed up, allowing his brother to work with them. And his mistake had killed Evan.

At that moment, Parker came tearing down the stairs. "Hardison's awake!"

Much to her surprise, no one moved. Hank remained where he was, eyes closed, fists clenched against his side. Elliot was staring blankly at the computer screen. Chuck and Sarah had arms around each other and Morgan was staring listlessly off in the distance. Only Nate reacted. "That's… that's great, Parker."

"Well? Aren't you going to come talk to him? He's wondering what the status is on Mozzie."

"I'm going to go," Hank choked out, even though he didn't know where he would go. He couldn't go back to the Hamptons. Evan was the one who set him up there; everything back at the Hamptons would remind him of Evan. He couldn't go back there. Ever. "Where are my keys?"

Elliot shrugged, listlessly. "Atlantic Ocean, apparently." He remained quiet for a second, before continuing. "Evan had them last."

Hank breathed out slowly. Of course. Of course, Evan had his keys. "I'll walk."

"Hardison wanted to talk to you, too!" Parker shouted at Hank, just as he was turning towards the door. Hank turned around to face her. "He wanted to thank you. Just real quick and then you and that weird brother of yours can be on your way."

Hank winced, but decided to follow her anyway. He had never turned down a patient's request and wasn't planning on starting any time soon. "Okay. I'm coming."

"You, too, Elliot," Parker added, gesturing for him to come up. "He wanted to talk to you, also."

Elliot joined Hank, following Parker up the stairs. "Look, man," he began, breaking the heavy silence, "I'm really sorry—"

"Don't talk to me," Hank muttered, taking the steps two at a time to put some distance between him and Elliot.

Within Neal's bedroom, Hardison was attempting to sit up with Parker's help. Hank, upon catching sight of this, quickly took his place at Hardison's side, carefully pushing him back down. "Your ribs are still healing. You can't sit up for a while."

"You the doc?" Hardison asked, leaning back against his pillow in acceptance.

"Yes."

"Thank you." He sighed. "I'm gonna be okay?"

Hank smiled weakly. "Within a week or two, you'll be back on your feet. You'll just need to take it easy for some time after that. You were lucky." (Not. Evan, though. Evan wasn't as lucky.)

"Coolio." Hardison then caught sight of Elliot lingering in the doorway. "Elliot, my man! Why the long face? Please tell me you're not blaming yourself about this. I should've watched my back, man. And you got me out of there anyway."

Elliot shook his head. "It's not you."

Hank turned away from Hardison. "I need to get going. Just be careful and you'll be fine."

"Okay. What the heck happened while I was unconscious?" Hardison asked.

Hank didn't move, studying the floor. Elliot spoke up, quietly. "Hank's brother, Evan, was killed by Sid earlier this morning."

"How do you know?" Hardison asked quietly.

"We gave him an earbud. After he was abducted, we tracked it. He's a couple miles off the coast. Dumped there, most likely."

"In the ocean?" Hardison asked, clearly surprised.

"Sid is a dangerous man," Elliot explained.

"I've really got to be going," Hank interrupted, stepping past Elliot, towards the door. He couldn't listen to this.

"Wait!" Hardison called out. "Are you sure there's not a small island or something?"

Elliot shook his head. "No. We checked Google Earth. Why?"

"The coms don't work underwater. If it's transmitting and you're able to track it, Evan can't possibly underwater." Hardison nodded at Elliot's shocked face. "He could be alive."

Hank could physically feel the hope creep back into his chest. If Evan was still alive—"What do we need to do to find out if he's alive?"

Hardison shrugged his shoulders and then winced. "Go there and find out, I suppose."

"It's in the ocean. We can't just take a taxi out there."

Hardison grinned. "I know a guy who knows a guy who has a boat. Give me a phone and a couple minutes and I'll hook you up."


	12. Chapter 12

**Anyway, we have a new character: Mozzie. Uh, he's a huge conspiracy theorist and super smart. Mozzie has perfect recall. I don't think there's anything else you really need to know.**

 **A/N: Hey, everyone. I'm actually going to take a break for November because 1. NaNoWriMo and 2. I don't think anyone truly cares about this story. I am not just leaving this story. First week of December, I'll be back and updates will be normal again. If I end up finishing the novel I'm working on for November, I might update earlier, but we'll see. Have a fantastic month, ya'll!**

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Evan woke up a dark room on a strange bed. He couldn't remember what had happened and was trying to figure out how much he had drunk to land himself in some random chick's bed and not remember anything about the bar adventure. And where was the girl anyway? He hoped she wasn't butt ugly, but he honestly couldn't remember what she looked like. Let alone her name. Oi, this would be awkward.

Movement from across the room caught Evan's attention. A figure was approaching him. The girl, he supposed. Though, she was a bit shorter and rounder than Evan would have preferred; maybe she had a fantastic personality. The figure stepped into the dim light from a cracked door and Evan realized he was face to face with a man. And not even a hot one. What sort of mess had he gotten himself into?

"Look," Evan began, scrambling out of the bed before the man got any ideas, "I don't know what happened last night, but you so are not my type, so I'll just be on my way."

"What?" the man asked, clearly confused. "What in the world are you talking about?"

"We didn't have-?" Evan gestured to the bed meaningfully.

"Uh, no. You just showed up here." The man stuck out his hand. "My name's Mozzie."

Mozzie. The name rang a bell, Evan realized as he shook Mozzie's hand. But, how did he know him… Then it all came rushing back to him, a deluge of memories. Neal and Nate and being a spy and the button tracker and Sid wasn't hurt and here he was. Fantastic. "You're Neal's friend."

"You know Neal?" Mozzie asked excitedly. Then he frowned. "Please don't tell me you're the rescue team. Because you did a pretty crappy job at that."

"No. Well, yes, but also no. See, I was supposed to put a tracker on Sid, but I kinda messed up and here I am." Realization flooded Evan's mind. "Crap. They're not going to find us, are they? I'm going to die in a small room with a small bald man."

Mozzie chose to ignore Evan's comment. "We're not going to die."

"Do you have a plan to escape?"

"Uh, no," Mozzie muttered, stepping to the side of Evan and pulling at drapes blocking a window that Evan had failed to notice. Bright sunlight illuminated the room, blinding Evan momentarily. He blinked rapidly, stepping toward the window and looking out.

"Oh," was all Evan could say. They were on a boat. A large boat, but a boat nonetheless. All Evan could see was the wide expanse of the ocean. Water as far as he could see. "You're not a good swimmer?" he asked half-heartedly.

Mozzie gave Evan a soft glare. "I am not swimming across the ocean." He paused, looking Evan up and down. "You never told me your name."

"Evan R. Lawson, CFO of HankMed. My brother—" Evan stopped, suddenly remembering his older brother. "Oh, man, my older brother's gonna be so pissed. He warned me not to help Neal—see, the last guy was nearly killed—but I wanted to be a spy and I helped him anyway." Evan sighed. "And now Hank is probably going into overprotective-older-brother mode. You know what I'm saying?"

Mozzie shook his head. "I don't have any family, let alone a brother."

Evan squinted at the shorter man. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure." Mozzie paused. "Why?"

"Neal and his buddies ID'd the guy who kidnapped me. His name is Sydney Winters. Neal said that your last name was Winters, so I guess we all assumed this was a family affair."

Mozzie shrugged. "If it's a family thing, they haven't told me. I've just been here…"

"Doing what?"

"Reading."

Evan nodded. "That's… nice. So, you're basically having your own mini vacation and just letting Neal worry about you without calling him and telling him something along the lines of 'Nah, man, I'm just having a little vacay?' You didn't think to tell your best friend that you weren't abducted?"

Mozzie rolled his eyes. "I was abducted. And I'm not reading by choice. I have perfect recall. I think they want to use me as a walking, talking computer."

"And me?"

"I don't know," Mozzie said, quietly. Evan seemed like a nice enough fellow, but he didn't understand why Winters had left him alive. It made more sense to just kill him. There had to be some sort of trick up Winters' sleeve.

Evan nodded, stepping away from the window and sitting on the bed. Tiredly, he ran his hand through his hair and down the side of his head, stopping when he came in contact with a thick, leather band. "Mozzie? What in the world is on my neck?"

Mozzie unconsciously fingered his matching leather band, Evan just barely noticing the leather wrapping around the small man's neck. "I'm no expert, you see, and I've only been able to study it a little, seeing how I've only been here for a couple days, but it's quite similar to a shock collar." Mozzie turned around, pointing to the base of his neck where the two ends of the band where inserted beneath the skin. "The band connects to the base of your brain stem, I believe, where electrical shocks can be sent directly to the nerves in your brain that interpret it as pain, without physically hurting us."

"That sounds… terrifying. Is this some gimmick out of a dystopian novel? I mean, seriously…" Evan hesitated a second, before asking, "Can it, like, fry our brains or something?"

"If the electric shocks sent are strong enough or last for a long enough time, I'd imagine so."

"That's, uh, comforting. Do you think it's manually controlled by Sid or something? Like, do you think he could just kill us on a whim?"

Mozzie shrugged. "I don't know, Evan. It could be possible, but I have no clue."

"This sucks," Evan muttered, running his hand against the crunchy sheets on the bed. It's not like Sid could even supply them with comfortable sheets. He flopped down backwards on the bed, shooting up as something small and sharp dug into his lower back. Immediately grabbing the offending object, Evan discovered that it was his earbud; it must've fallen out of his ear while he was unconscious.

"What's that?" Mozzie asked.

"The earbud they gave me. I completely forgot about it." Evan quickly shoved the com into his ear, anxiously asking, "Hello? Hello? Is anyone there? Neal? Nate?"

Nothing but static.

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Nate was feeling incredibly guilty. He shouldn't have let Evan even consider joining them; he knew just how dangerous Sid was and what the consequences could be. This shouldn't have happened. Sighing heavily, Nate removed his earbud, tossing it onto the kitchen counter behind him. Hank and Elliot had just gone upstairs to talk to Hardison and Nate was frantically trying to come up with something to say to Hank, anything that could improve the situation. But there wasn't anything. Nate knew this. He had lost his son many years ago, but words of consolation did nothing to console. Nothing could soften the shattered shards of the heart after losing someone close to you. Words wouldn't bring Evan back from the dead.

At that moment, Hank and Elliot came down the stairs; Parker must have remained up there with Hardison. Surprisingly enough, Hank looked almost excited. He still looked plenty angry, but the grief-stricken look that had been present in his eyes earlier seemed to have been banished. "Hardison's calling a friend," Hank began, approaching Nate. "We need to be ready to get out there."

"Get where?"

"Wherever Evan is," Hank explained.

Was he this eager to collect the body already? Nate didn't particularly look forward to fishing in the Atlantic Ocean, especially fishing for a dead CFO, but he did owe Hank. "Hank," Nate began, "I don't think—"

"No, Nate. You owe me. You owe Evan."

Nate swallowed hard. "Hank, I really think—"

Parker came bouncing down the stairs. "We're in luck! Hardison's friend is actually just off the coast, about thirty miles from here. And he's totally willing to share his boat with us!"

Apparently everyone was excited to go searching for the body. Great. Nate allowed himself to be led outside, where Elliot was showing Hank how to hotwire his car, so that they could make their way to where the boat would be located. Hank, Elliot, a reluctant Nate, Chuck, and Neal would all be making their way to the coast to get the boat.

After Hank had started the car, under Elliot's close supervision from shotgun, and had been driving for a few moments, Chuck spoke up, "Okay, I may be the only one who is completely lost, but what in the world are we doing?"

"Getting Evan," Elliot grunted.

"Oh." Chuck hesitated for a second before asking, "What if it—I mean, he—has sunk, you know, into the ocean."

"Evan's an excellent swimmer. Besides, he can't get the com wet, so he's probably on some sort of dry land," Hank explained.

The car remained silent for a short while, before Nate spoke up. "Evan's not dead?"

Hank shook his head, letting his hope grow stronger. "We don't think so; Hardison doesn't think so."

"Well, that's good," Nate said, once again at a loss of words. If Evan was safe and fine, why was he still feeling guilty?

"He had better be fine. You had better make sure that Evan is okay and completely unhurt," Hank warned. "It's your fault he was taken and you had better make sure he comes back."

"We will," Nate promised, planning to do his best to keep that promise. If saving Evan could absolve him of guilt, then he would do anything to clean his soul. Not that he should even be feeling guilty; Evan was fine. Evan would be fine.

Hank drove way too fast, in Nate's opinion, the proof being that they arrived on the coast in forty-five minutes. "He's supposed to be somewhere around here," Hank muttered, jumping out of the car nearly before he had parked it. Elliot was out right after him, but Nate, Neal and Chuck hung back a bit.

"Who are we looking for?" Chuck asked.

"I don't know," Hank muttered, scanning the coast. "A guy with a boat."

"Oh. That's helpful…" Neal muttered.

Hank shrugged. "Hardison just said it was a friend of a friend. He's supposed to be looking for us."

"Wonderful," Neal muttered. "Let's just stand here and this mysterious fellow will pop out and exclaim—"

"Are any of you named Elliot?" a man called from across the rocky beach.

Neal gaped at the short man approaching them. "That should not have worked…" he muttered, half in shock.

Elliot slowly raised his hand and the short man scurried over to where they were standing, nearly tripping over his own feet countless times. "Awesome. I was wondering when ya'll would show up," the man said, finally reaching where the group was standing. "The boat's docked back there, if you wanna follow me." He gestured back to where he had been.

"I can't thank you enough for this," Hank began, following the short little man with crazily messy blonde hair.

"No, it's fine. I'm not using the boat right now; it's my day off. Anyway, Riley was telling me about someone's brother missing and a friend. What's going on?"

Neal spoke up, volunteering to explain their past adventure to the strange man. "My friend, Mozzie, was abducted on Tuesday, earlier this week. Through quite the chain of events, Hank ended up coming to help us after Hardison, who I'm assuming you know, was attacked. Hank, being a doctor, helped Hardison. Unfortunately, Hank's younger brother, Evan, decided to fill in as, well, basically a spy for us. He was abducted earlier this morning. His tracker shows that he's located off the coast and so we were hoping to use your boat in our efforts to find him."

The blonde man nodded. "Sounds exciting."

Hank shook his head emphatically. "It is not exciting; my brother is missing."

The blonde guy shrugged. "It's a little exciting."

Docked to the coast was a Hunton RS43, its brown paint gleaming in the sunlight. "This is your boat?" Elliot asked.

"Uh, no." The man said, tossing the keys to Neal. "It's a friend's, so there is a rule you should know about."

"Only one?" Hank asked.

"It's the most important one," the blonde man said, shrugging. "Don't blow up the boat."

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 **Oh, and if you know who the blonde man is, then you win a baby ostrich. Plus, you probably have an idea of one of the fics I've started working on, since he's the main character of that fic.**


	13. Chapter 13

**I am actually back, if anyone is still reading this. So, updates will continue to be on Tuesdays, per usual. NaNoWriMo was a blast and now I finally have time to devote to FanFiction. Anyway, this story should be finished by the end of December. Hopefully. There shouldn't be more than four chapters left on this baby. That's all I've got; read on, young child.**

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"Are they answering?" Mozzie asked, sitting down next to Evan on the bed.

Evan tore the earbud out of his ear in frustration. "No one is listening! Why would they take out the earbuds? They know that I'm stuck out here with Sid."

Mozzie shrugged. "Can they track the earbud? Maybe they can still find us even if we never get in contact."

"You're right!" Evan announced triumphantly. "They can track the—" he stopped, mid-sentence, the realization souring his stomach. "They think I'm dead. They're going to track the earbud to the middle of the ocean and they're going to assume that Sid killed me." His shoulders slumped noticeably. "Hank's going to go back to the Hamptons and I'm going to die out here, alone and forgotten."

"They might come looking for the body," Mozzie suggested. "They might still find us."

Evan shook his head. "Hank, uh, Hank doesn't handle grief well. I don't know if he'll even want to see my dead body, let alone go search for it in the ocean." Evan laughed a little, though Mozzie suspected it was more of a drawn out sob than true laughter. "Hank told me not to help Neal, not to play spy, but I didn't listen to him. I should've. You'd think, after thirty years of Hank being right, I'd learn to listen to him, but no. I still land myself in messes because I'm still an idiot."

"You're not—" Mozzie began, but was interrupted by Sid's entrance.

Sid grinned a bit. "You are an idiot. Don't listen to dear ol' Moz. He doesn't know you like how I do."

Evan nodded nervously, as some form of greeting. "Hey, Sid. Or Winters. Do you want us to call you by your first or last name?"

"I'd prefer if you didn't speak at all, actually." Sid turned to Mozzie. "You can call me Sid, though."

"What do you want, Winters?" Mozzie asked, arms crossed against his chest.

"I'm assuming that Evan, here, told you all about Neal's suspicions of our familial ties?" Mozzie didn't answer Sid's question, so Sid continued, pacing around the room leisurely. "I'm here to put an end to all those rumors. Yes, we are brothers. Though, I had been hoping for a more impressive older brother, beggars can't be choosers."

Mozzie tilted his head up a little bit, examining Sid through the bottom half of his glasses. "I don't believe you." The two men did not look entirely similar, but Mozzie had seen plenty of siblings who did not look alike.

"We'll get a DNA test once we get to where we're going. That'll prove it to you."

"And where are we going?" Evan asked.

Sid turned on the CFO, eyes flashing. Evan, rather quickly, remembered that Sid had told him explicitly not to speak. "No. The correct question is where are _we_ going."

Evan shot Sid a very confused look. "That's what I said: where are we going?"

Sid grinned toothily. "Where are we," he gestured to himself and Mozzie, "going. You're not coming."

"Not coming?" Evan asked, as he tried to figure out what Sid was implying. "You—you mean to say that you're going to, what, kill me?"

"Exactly."

Evan's eyes widened significantly. He knew that Sid could do exactly what he threatened; this was no empty threat. After seeing what had happened to Hardison, Evan also expected his death to be slow and extremely painful. At least now Hank and the others would be right: Evan would be dead. While he knew that begging would probably gain him nothing, Evan couldn't help but say something. "Please, don't kill me. M-maybe I could help you with something. I'm pretty good with computers and-and money. Just, please, don't kill me."

Sid seemed to consider Evan's plea, before saying, "You may be of some use yet." Ignoring Evan's sigh of relief, Sid turned to Mozzie. "Brother," he began, pretending to not have seen Mozzie's disdainful eye roll, "will you help me build the machine that you've studied?"

"I think not," Mozzie replied.

"Have it your way," Sid murmured ominously. He stared deeply into Mozzie's eyes, before exiting the room, slamming the door behind him.

Evan slowly let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Do you…" he hesitated, fiddling with the sheet. "Do you think he's really going to kill me?" Evan asked quietly.

"I don't know," Mozzie lied. He was generally able to read criminals well in order to sense their level of violence. Sid seemed like the violent type, the sort of man that didn't just kill out of necessity, but out of fun. This did not bode well for Evan.

Sighing loudly, Evan stood up. "You don't have to lie for me. I know what he's capable of. I was just kinda hoping that maybe…" Evan trailed off, before suddenly patting his pocket. "I've got the earbud in here, so if we're lucky, they'll be able to track it and find us before Sid can even think about killing me. Or you, if he's really in a bad mood."

At that moment, Sid reentered the room, singlehandedly destroying any semblance of a happy conversation. "I'll ask you once more, brother. Do you plan to help your family or not?"

"It's been a minute," Mozzie muttered sarcastically. "I don't think my answer has changed."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Sid said, beginning to loosen his belt.

Evan held up his hands in a futile effort to stop Sid. "Whoa, man. We do not need to see anything, okay?"

Sid rolled his eyes as he finished pulling the belt out of the loops. Turning to Mozzie, he once again addressed his brother. "Mozzie, is your final answer that you won't help me or the rest of your family?"

"No, I'm not going to do it."

Before Mozzie or Evan could react, Sid's belt had flashed out, the buckle biting into Evan's cheek. Evan screamed, more from shock than pain, but Mozzie remained motionless. He knew something like this could happen. He should have seen it coming. And now, as long as he refused to help Sid, Evan would be hurt. We're not friends, Mozzie tried to reassure himself. His pain won't bother me because we're not friends.

"How about now?" Sid asked, maliciously.

"How about no?" Mozzie replied. He desperately avoided Evan's eye contact.

The belt flashed again, this time striking Evan's left cheek. Evan slowly brought his hand to his stinging cheek, his sad eyes trained on Mozzie. "I will not stop," Sid threatened. "I will kill him. You do understand that, don't you?"

"I do understand," Mozzie said, softly. "But I will not help you."

The belt buckle sliced Evan's chin open, blood trickling from the new wound. "You will kill him. You'll be a murderer."

"I don't care," Mozzie said, practice keeping his voice from trembling.

"His blood will be on your hands."

"Doesn't matter."

Sid glared at Mozzie for a second, before turning to Evan. "Take your shirt off."

"Buy me a drink first," Evan shakily said, his poor attempt at a joke. But as Sid continued to hold his glare, Evan began to pull his shirt off, his skin pale in the dark room. "Please don't," Evan whispered. Mozzie was very sorry to see that the young CFO was trembling. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to hurt the young man.

"I will not help you," Sid said, mocking Mozzie's previous answers. The belt bit into Evan's bare chest. "I don't care." The belt cut open the base of his neck. "Doesn't matter." Sid whipped the bet at Evan's chest more ferociously, taking more skin off than previously. Evan cried out in pain, quickly grabbing at the fresh wound.

Sid turned to Mozzie, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Help me or I will kill him. It will not be fast; he will be in immense pain. You will watch him slowly die. You will hear his cries. And you will know that, if you wanted to, you could spare him this pain. But you won't."

As much as it hurt him, Mozzie made no move to stop Sid.

"Turn around," Sid commanded Evan. Eyes, screwed shut, Evan complied, allowing his defenseless back to be lashed by Sid's biting belt. Sid continued attacking Evan's back until his belt was wet with the offending red liquid. Eventually, Sid stepped away from his handiwork, eyeing Mozzie's carefully controlled face. "I'll be back later, once we're closer to our destination," he said softly, before exiting the room.

Evan remained where he was, leaning against the bed, unmoving, even after Sid had left. Mozzie knew he was alive due to the hitching breaths that escaped Evan's prone figure. "Are—Are you okay?" Mozzie asked hesitantly. He knew that Evan was anything but okay, but he still felt the need to ask.

"No," Evan whispered. "No, I'm not okay." He took a deep shuddering breath. "It's only going to get worse. I wish he'd just kill me now."

"Your brother and Neal might still be tracking us. They'll find us in time," Mozzie reassured his young friend.

"No, they won't," Evan said, his voice flat. "I'm going to die and eventually you'll have to help Sid. I wish we had just stayed in the Hamptons."

Mozzie stood there silently, watching Evan's blood trickle down his back sluggishly, before gently commanding, "Give me the earbud."

"What?" Evan asked.

"The earbud. Someone needs to be on the other end. I'll just keep talking until someone answers." Mozzie quickly took the ear piece from Evan and fit it in his ear. "Neal? Neal? Someone, please answer."

* * *

Morgan was infinitely bored. This extended beyond his regular realm of boredom that he practically lived in at the Buy More. This was an all-encompassing and overpowering boredom. "Ugh," he complained, watching Casey's neck muscles tense up. "Uggggggghhhhh," he repeated, extending the groan. He received the reaction he wanted.

"What?" Casey snapped, turning toward the short, bearded man. The veins in his neck were pulsing. Morgan watched the pulsation with interest.

"I'm bored," he finally admitted to the larger, muscly man. Casey grunted, but made no other move to alleviate Morgan's boredom. "Fine," Morgan muttered, "I'll find something much more interesting to do."

Deciding that the kitchen was as good a place as any to distract himself, Morgan settled for exploring that room. Hardison's laptop was near the stove, so Morgan poked around on there for a while, before deciding he really shouldn't be going through an injured man's property. Near the fridge, Morgan found one of the ear pieces Hardison had created. Sticking the object in his ear, Morgan grabbed a large metal spoon and began slashing the air in an imaginary sword fight. Once all his unseen assailants were cut down, Morgan pressed his hand to his ear, before muttering, "Subject is terminated. I'll rendezvous at home base shortly."

To Morgan's infinite surprise, the ear piece responded. "What?" a voice on the other end asked. Morgan immediately began clawing at his ear, desperate to get the earbud out before the mysterious voice could track and kill him. He stopped though, when the voice asked, "Neal?"

"Evan?" Morgan asked, suddenly unsure. He hadn't thought that the voice sounded like Evan, but he did know that Evan had an earbud, so maybe he was calling in.

"No, this is Mozzie. Who is this?"

Ah, the infamous Mozzie. This was nowhere near what Morgan had assumed the man would sound like. "I'm Morgan. I'm one of Neal's friends. But from way back when he went by Bryce. Actually, we weren't friends, then, but we are now, so I think it counts."

"…What?" Mozzie asked, clearly confused.

"You know what, never mind," Morgan said, rubbing his hand over his face. "Is Evan with you? Is he okay?"

Mozzie hesitated. "Evan's with me. He's alive."

"But is he hurt?" Morgan asked, noticing the way that Mozzie avoided the initial question.

"Uh, yes. But it's not too bad." There was a slight pause, before, "You need to call Neal. We're on the move."

"On the move?" Morgan asked. "Where?"

"I don't know. Sid won't tell us."

"Okay," Morgan muttered, pulling out his phone and calling Chuck. "I'm calling Chuck since I don't have anyone else's number." Morgan waited for a while, until the phone went straight to voicemail. "He's not answering," Morgan admitted. "Does Evan know Hank's number? I can try him."

There was a stretch of silence before Mozzie responded, "He doesn't know. The number is on his phone, but Sid has that."

"That's, uh, not good," Morgan said quietly. "How are they going to find you guys now?"


	14. Chapter 14

**Happy Tuesday, everyone! Anyway, there are only two chapters left on this guy (after this one), so it's finally officially drawing to a close. If you're looking for anything specific, I could try to fit it in. If not, read on!**

* * *

Neal was elected to drive the boat, having the most experience of the group. When Chuck asked when he had learned, Neal only responded that the Statute of Limitations protected him from anything that may or may not have occurred when he first drove a boat. They were going as fast as the boat could possibly handle, but Hank was still urging Neal to go faster, his face taut as he gazed out at the wide expanse of the ocean.

"He's going to be fine," Chuck reassured Hank. "We know he's out there and we're going to find him."

Hank anxiously ran his hand through his hair. "I should never have let him do this. I knew it was a bad idea. I knew he would—" Hank cut himself off, shaking his head wearily. "Little brothers are too much work."

Nate leaned against the side of the boat, studying the GPS he was holding. "We should be approaching the tracker soon. The coordinates we received are just a few minutes away."

Elliot stared out at the wide expanse of water. Nothing seemed to be around them. No persons. No boats. "Are you sure these are the right coordinates?" Elliot asked. "I'm not seeing anything."

"We're not there yet; of course, you don't see anything," Hank admonished the hitter.

"No," Nate said softly. "We're close enough that we should be able to see Evan, if he was out here."

Hank turned on Nate. "But, he is out here. He's a good swimmer. He was on the swim team in high school: he won two gold medals. He didn't drown. He couldn't have drowned."

"Hank," Nate began. "I know that you—"

"No," Hank interrupted, shrugging Nate's comforting hand from his shoulder, "Evan's alive. I just know it. He is. He _is_ ," he repeated emphatically. Hank gestured to his chest, "I would know if he were dead. I would _know_." Hank turned away from the men, gazing out into the water. For a moment, he watched his distorted image flash against the choppy water as Neal drove the boat faster. He closed his eyes, allowing the spray of ocean water to wet his face. He wasn't crying. It was the ocean spray, Hank decided. Besides, Evan was alive. Evan was okay. They'd find him and he'd be shaken, but he would be okay. He'd be fine. And Hank would yell at him and hug him and just be glad his brother was alive.

"This is it," Neal announced, letting the boat slow to a stop in the midst of the ocean.

Hank opened his eyes and quickly examined the area immediately surrounding him. No, this couldn't be it. They must have written down the wrong coordinates or something. Evan wasn't here and he had to be here or else—No, Evan _had_ to be here. No other possibility was acceptable. "This can't be it," Hank said, trying to keep the worry from his voice.

Neal shrugged sadly. If they couldn't find Evan, how would they ever find Mozzie? The past couple days had been awful and Neal hated to admit it, but his hope was starting to strain. He had the best people involved, but they still had no clue where Mozzie was being held. Or even if he was alive, if Neal were to be completely honest with himself. What if he had lost Mozzie for forever? "These are the coordinates."

"Well, maybe we got the wrong coordinates," Hank pointed out.

The four other men looked amongst each other helplessly. No one exactly wanted to be the one to tell Hank that the odds were that his younger brother had been killed. If Evan wasn't here… well, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure where the young man would be. "I'll call Morgan," Chuck announced. "I'll just have him recheck the coordinates. Maybe we did get a number wrong or something."

Elliot shot Chuck a don't-give-him-unnecessary-hope type of look, but Chuck ignored Elliot, pulling out his phone. "Huh," he muttered. "I missed a call from Morgan. Maybe we did get something wrong."

"How would Morgan know if we got something wrong?" Neal asked. "If Evan were to contact anyone, it would be Hank."

Chuck ignored Neal, putting the phone to his ear. Morgan, to his surprise, answered almost immediately. "Chuck, thank goodness you called," the short man exclaimed. His voice was a little muffled, but Chuck correctly attributed that to the poor service his phone was getting on the ocean.

"What's going on?" Chuck asked, putting his free hand to his other ear to help him hear Morgan better.

"Um, long story short, I talked to Mozzie and they're in some sort of boat and on the move."

"You talked to Mozzie?" Chuck asked. Neal's head shot up and he gestured that he wanted to speak on the phone. Chuck shook his head and continued talking to Morgan. "And Evan? How is he?"

Chuck immediately noticed the way Morgan hesitated. Crap. He distinctly ignored Hank, who had come to stand next to him, hoping to hear about his brother's condition. "He's alive," Morgan started. That wasn't comforting at all. "I just know he's hurt. That's all Mozzie told me. But, Chuck, the way Mozzie was talking, it might be bad. I'm not sure, and I really hope Evan's just fine, you know, only a little hurt, but…"

"I understand," Chuck responded. He took a breath, before continuing, "What are their coordinates now?"

Morgan snorted. "I don't know. But they're heading east right now. In fact, it looks like they're just about directly east of you at the moment. I could draw a straight line."

"How fast are they moving?"

"Look, Chuck, I'm not a coordinate or boat expert. All I can say is that if you go really fast, maybe you can catch up."

"We have to be careful of our fuel, but we'll try," Chuck replied.

"Okay. Good luck. Bring Mozzie and Evan back, safe and sound."

"We'll try."

Chuck hung up on his friend, turning to face Nate. He wasn't going to look at Neal or Hank's eager faces, not when so many things could still go wrong. Not when Evan could be badly hurt. "They're in a boat. It's heading east. Morgan thinks it's directly east of us."

Neal nodded quickly, before starting the boat back up and speeding off into the direction of where Morgan had said Mozzie and Evan would be.

Hank approached Chuck. "Is Evan okay?" He had noticed the way that Chuck's face had hardened; it had looked as if he hadn't wanted any emotion to break past the mask he had put on. That could mean that Evan was—No, he was fine. He had to be fine. Hank was certain he would know if anything bad had happened to his brother.

Chuck slowly turned to Hank, knowing that he couldn't lie to Evan's older brother. It wouldn't be fair. Besides, Hank was a doctor. He needed to know that his doctoring abilities may be called upon shortly. "I'm not sure," Chuck admitted.

"What do you mean you're 'not sure?'" Hank demanded.

"When Mozzie talked to Morgan he said your brother was hurt, but he didn't elaborate," Chuck explained.

"So, what are we talking about?" Hank asked. "I'm not used to abduction situations. How would Sid hurt Evan? Would he have, uh, broken an arm? Beat him?" Hank paled, as he whispered the next suggestion, "Shot him?" He didn't want to imagine his baby brother having any of these injuries, but he had to prepare for the worst.

Chuck shrugged. "I really can't say. It could be anything. Or, it could be nothing. Maybe he was just knocked unconscious. We just don't know."

"Well, we're going to find out," Neal muttered, his voice barely audible above the slapping of the boat against the waves. "I can see something coming up on the horizon."

* * *

Mozzie crouched down near where Evan remained leaning against the bed. He had managed to staunch most of the bleeding with Evan's shirt, but the young CFO's back was still bloodily mangled. "It's going to be okay. I talked to Morgan. He was able to get into contact with Chuck. They're on the way here; your brother is on his way here," Mozzie whispered, hoping to comfort Evan. "We'll be out of here in no time.

Evan only groaned, his head turning to Mozzie. "Hurts," he whimpered. "M'back."

"I know," Mozzie whispered back, "but, we have to be ready to leave. You want to see your brother again, don't you?"

"Hank?"

"Yeah, Hank. He's coming. He's going to save us," Mozzie quickly reassured Evan.

Evan looked at Mozzie wearily, before turning back to stare at the off-white sheet. "He thinks I'm dead. Can't… can't contact him."

Mozzie frowned. "No, Evan. We did contact them. I talked to Morgan, remember?" Mozzie was no doctor and didn't have much experience with doctors since he absolutely loathed hospitals. Of course, there was that one time he had had to pose as a cardiologist, but this was totally different and very, very real. Instead of a Pollock, Evan's life was on the line. So, in short, he had no idea what to do to help Evan. Stop the bleeding, check. Mozzie had completely exhausted his medical checklist and he had no clue what to do now that Evan was forgetting what had just happened. That's a bad sign, right?

"Oh… Yeah," Evan agreed, blinking tiredly.

"Hank will be here shortly," Mozzie told the younger man, before leaving his side to look out the window. They didn't seem to be moving exceptionally fast, but Mozzie really wasn't an expert on boats. If he ever made it back to New York, Mozzie vowed to learn as much as he could about boats and anatomy. Then, on the off chance that he would ever be abducted again, he would know exactly what to do to escape. Or at least help an injured friend.

As he stood there, examining the never-ending waves, a small boat came into sight. Mozzie immediately pressed his face against the glass, trying to get a better look. He knew that his eye sight was definitely under par, but he could almost swear that that was Neal driving the boat. Maybe Morgan's friend, Chuck, had been nearby when Morgan called him. Or maybe luck was just with the con man. Either way, help was on its way.

Which meant that Mozzie had to help Evan get ready to escape.

Mozzie turned to the still unmoving man. "Come on, Evan," he said, kneeling next to the young CFO. "We're finally getting out of here. Can you put your shirt on?" he asked. Evan sat up and allowed Mozzie to gently maneuver the blood-soaked shirt upon him. His fingers accidently brushed one of the welts, causing Evan to jerk away from Mozzie's touch. "I'm sorry, Evan, but we've got to do this. We've got to get away."

Getting Evan to stand up was a Herculean task, but once Evan had stopped swaying, he seemed okay as long as Mozzie gripped his arm. "How are we… getting out?" Evan asked, breathing through the pain. Standing up had torn open a few of his barely scabbing wounds and the pain was manifesting itself in sharp pinpricks that pestered his back.

"Uh, we'll cross that bridge when we get there," Mozzie suggested. "Just worry about yourself right now, okay?"

"Okay," Evan agreed.

Mozzie was wracking his brain on a way to get off the boat and into Neal's boat (which, by the way, where the heck did he even get a boat?) without alerting Sid when the devil himself entered the room. "About ready for round two?" he asked. Sid stopped short when he noticed that Mozzie and Evan were standing suspiciously to the side of the bed. "What are you doing?"

"I've got a plan," Mozzie quickly whispered to Evan. Evan nodded tiredly. He was willing to trust any half-baked plan Mozzie had come up with.

"I asked," Sid began again, stepping closer to the pair, "what are you doing?"

Mozzie took a deep breath. This was crazy. It was stupid. Not to mention that he and Evan could very likely die in the process of his "escape plan." But, it was all he had. "I hope you can swim," he muttered to Evan, before pulling the injured man after him and running towards the window.

They leaped.

* * *

Neal was edging his way towards the large boat when there was an audible crash and two bodies flung themselves out the window and into the ocean.

"Did they just—" Chuck began.

"Jump out a window?" Nate finished for the spy. "I believe so."

"Idiots," Elliot muttered.

* * *

The water was frigid, Mozzie decided. No, more than frigid. This was what zero degrees Kelvin felt like. If the cold weren't enough to make the leap into the ocean a miserable experience, the fact that Mozzie could barely keep himself afloat was currently putting a damper on his impromptu swim. He would be fine if he were by himself, but Evan's added weight was not helping in any foreseeable way.

"You've got to paddle," Mozzie instructed Evan. If the younger man didn't start helping keep his head above water, both men would sink. Evan didn't respond. Mozzie shifted the man's weight, noticing that his head simply lolled to the side. Fan-freakin-tastic. He was unconscious. Now it was up to the small man to buoy them up. He scissor-kicked his legs over and over again, but with each effort, he felt himself weaken and sink slightly more.

"Moz!"

Mozzie would have cried out in relief if all his efforts weren't focused on keeping Evan and himself from drowning. Neal was there. Which meant there was a boat. Which meant they were safe. A man Mozzie didn't recognize reached down and helped pull Evan out of the water, before assisting Mozzie out. Someone was bending over Evan's prone body, feeling for a pulse. Evan's brother, Mozzie assumed.

Neal sat beside Mozzie, letting Elliot take control of the boat as it began speeding back towards shore. "Are you okay?" he asked his friend, taking in the soaking wet clothes. Neal was grateful to note that Mozzie didn't have any apparent injuries.

Mozzie was about to answer his long-time friend, when a jolt of electricity shot down his spine. He fell to the floor, arching his back against the pain. Beside him, Mozzie noticed that Evan had begun convulsing. "What's going on?" one of the men that Mozzie didn't recognize shouted.

"Leather… band," Mozzie grunted between clenched teeth. The shocks were becoming stronger and longer. He gestured at the offending object, before one last shock sent him reeling into the deep, dark black.

Neal shouted for help as Mozzie fell unconscious. He held his friend down as more convulsions shook the con man's body. "Someone, Hank, help me!"

Hank was busy trying to help his brother. Upon noticing that the band was inserted under the skin at the base of the neck, Hank gently flipped Evan onto his stomach, tilting his head so he could still breathe. Suddenly grateful that he had remembered to grab his medical bag, Hank removed a scalpel.

"You need to help Mozzie!" Neal shouted at Hank, desperation, lacing his voice.

Hank glanced at Mozzie's convulsing body, before turning back to his brother. He had to hurry; large amounts of electricity could—Hank didn't want to think about it. "I only have time to save one of them."

And, really, in moments like these, there was no doubt in Hank's mind who he would save.

* * *

 **The leather bands re-mentioned in this chapter are sort of based off of a device in the dystopian novel The Alliance by Gerald N. Lund. I would highly recommend reading that book if you want to understand more of how they work. Or if you just want to read a good dystopian novel. To explain why the bands are so similar to the devices in The Alliance, I kind of decided that Sid was friends with the Major and worked with him. So, that's some trivia if you cared to know what was going on. Have a great day!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Good morning! Finally done with all my finals, so that's pretty fantastic. There's only one more chapter left, so we're nearing the end! Hope you guys are still enjoying the story!**

* * *

Neal gaped at Hank, his hands pressing down on Mozzie in an attempt to keep him as still as he could. The doctor wasn't going to help him; the doctor wasn't going to help Mozzie. He was going to forego Mozzie's life for his brother's. Hank shot the con man a sorry look, but continued to focus his efforts on his baby brother. "Wait," Neal said, quickly. "Give me a scalpel. I'll just do what you do."

Hank hesitantly looked at Neal, but then rustled through his bag, tossing Neal a scalpel. He spoke tersely, his voice taut with worry, "The band is inserted underneath the skin at the base of the neck. What you're going to do is make a small incision… like this. Yes, that's right. Um, I've never had to work with anything like this, but you'll need to be careful pulling the leather band out. I would recommend a two-handed pull right… now!"

Neal and Hank simultaneously tore the offending black leather out of their necks of their, respective, best friend and brother. The ends of the leather had small copper wires protruding outward. Small sparks flew from the wires, the source of the electrocution. "What is that?" Chuck asked, leaning in to observe the instrument of torture. For a brief second, he wished he still had the intersect so that he could see if the government had any information on whatever they had just pulled out of Mozzie and Evan's necks.

"I don't know," Neal admitted, tossing it aside and refocusing on Mozzie. "Moz. Moz, come on. Mozzie!"

The short con man slowly blinked as Neal patted his cheek urgently. "Neal?" He sat up halfway, before deciding that that was way too much effort and lay back down. "Sid?"

"He's not here; you're safe."

"Evan?"

Neal glanced at the prone man to his side. "Hank's helping him."

Mozzie closed his eyes in relief. "Good." They had managed to escape. Neal was there and now everything would be okay.

Now that Hank had removed the black leather collar thing, he had the time to really examine his brother. The first thing he noticed was all the blood staining Evan's shirt. Hank could tell it wasn't a life-threatening amount of blood in the shirt, but it was a large enough amount to worry him. He gently worked the shirt off of his brother, noting the times when Evan winced as the shirt brushed up against one of his injuries. Once the bloody shirt was off his brother's back, Hank could truly see all the damage inflicted upon Evan.

His cheeks were bloody where some of the skin had been scraped off. His back was scabbed over; there would be scars As Hank examined his baby brother's injuries, he realized that it looked as if someone (Sid) had whipped Evan. "Oh, Ev," Hank muttered as he bandaged what he could of Evan's back.

"What happened?" Neal asked Mozzie.

Mozzie took a deep breath. "To Evan? Or from the beginning?"

Neal shrugged. "You might as well tell us what happened from the beginning. We've got plenty of time."

"It was, uh, Tuesday, right? We had just stolen that painting." Mozzie glanced at the unfamiliar men around him and decided that he didn't care that he had just confessed to stealing art; he was too exhausted to figure out some plausible lie or something of the sort. "I was going to your place," he continued, looking back at Neal, "but halfway there an old lady asked if I could help her carry her groceries into her apartment. So, being the nice fellow I am, I helped her. Someone, probably Sid, must have attacked me from behind because the next thing I knew, I was being held on that boat. The old lady, I'm almost certain she's Sid's mother, handed me a giant stack of books regarding explosives." Mozzie paused, chuckling a bit. "So, if any of you ever need help piecing together a bomb, I know how to."

"And Evan?" Hank asked, from where he was checking his brother's vitals. "What happened to Evan?"

Mozzie looked up at Hank, who had paused in taking Evan's blood pressure to watch the short con man. "Sid just sorta tossed him in my room. He was unconscious, but eventually, he came to." Here, Mozzie hesitated. "We talked for a bit, but Sid ended up interrupting us. When I refused to help him, he whipped Evan with his belt. I'm sorry, but I couldn't do anything. I couldn't help him." Mozzie carefully avoided Hank's gaze, choosing to fiddle with his shirt. Maybe there had been something he could have done, but if there was, Mozzie still was clueless as to what it could have been.

"It's okay," Neal reassured his older friend. "I'm sure Evan will be fine, right?"

Hank glanced back at his brother. "I—I think so. His injuries aren't life-threatening, but," Hank swallowed, "he's never been badly hurt like this. And who can say how this will affect him psychologically. I'd really just like to get him to the hospital."

Nate shook his head gently. "Until we've gotten Sid and company arrested, we can't risk sending him to the hospital. We don't want someone to attack him like Neal."

"Attacked?" Mozzie questioned, glancing up at Neal.

Neal waved Mozzie's question away, before agreeing with Nate. "I'm sure you can make Evan plenty comfortable at my place. You're a doctor."

"Well, yes," Hank admitted, rubbing his hand across his brow, "but, he would be better helped in a hospital. If his wounds get badly infected or if he has some sort of internal injury, he will need to go to a hospital, Sid or no Sid. I won't let my brother die because he may or may not be attacked."

"What are we going to do about Sid anyway?" Chuck asked, squatting down near Evan, observing the younger man's injuries. This had really spiraled out of control, but hopefully everything would be over soon. They had rescued Mozzie, maybe now they could all return to their lives and forget the crazy adventure that had nearly left four men dead (although it was Neal's idea to be hit by the car, so maybe that didn't count).

Elliot grinned slightly. "I'm sure we can think of something."

Nate allowed a smile to spread across his features. "That's sorta our specialty."

Hank nodded firmly. "I'll hold you to it. Sid and whoever he ended up working with deserve to be punished."

* * *

Morgan had finally surpassed 42 on Flappy Bird and was hoping for a spectacular high score. He carefully tapped the screen, controlling the bird as it navigated its way through the green pipes. Morgan was just approaching 50, when a sharp knock sounded at the door. The suddenness of the sound surprised Morgan, and his finger jerked the bird into a pipe. "Are you freakin' kidding me?" he complained, tossing his phone on the couch beside him as he prepared to get the door. Unfortunately, the phone bounced off the couch and landed, face-down, on the floor. "If you're cracked, I swear…" Morgan threatened the phone. He gently flipped it over. "The world hates me," he muttered, staring at the spider web of cracks on the upper left corner.

The knocking persisted, angrier this time. "Hold on," Morgan muttered, making his way to the door. Neal had told them that June would be coming back soonish, so it was probably whoever Neal was renting the upper room with. Morgan wasn't exactly looking forward to explaining to some older lady that he was just staying there until they could find a way to save Mozzie and now Evan.

He pulled the door open, explanations at the ready, but it wasn't June at the door. "What took you so long?" Elliot grunted, helping Hank carry Evan into the room. "This kid is heavy."

Behind Elliot and Hank, Neal helped Mozzie through the door. Chuck and Nate followed close behind. "We're back," Chuck needlessly announced.

"Is Evan okay?" Morgan asked, edging his way closer to the prone man and peering at the cut cheeks. "I mean, he's going to be fine, right?"

"It could have been worse," was all Elliot said.

"But's he's fine?" Morgan repeated, catching Chuck's eye. Chuck wasn't allowed to lie him; he was pretty sure there was some rule about friends not lying to friends. Other than that whole spy thing for a couple years, but Morgan forgave him for that.

Chuck nodded. "He's going to be okay."

Morgan stared at Evan once more, watching Hank carefully situate his brother on the couch. "What happened?"

"Sid whipped him," Chuck said quietly.

"Oh," was all Morgan could think to say in response to Chuck. This whole experience was starting to feel completely unreal. It had been fun to come in at the beginning and it had been fun to hang out with Neal in the hospital, but now Hardison had been brutally attacked and now Evan was injured. Whipped, even. Normal people weren't whipped. Ever. Morgan wondered if maybe this was just some weird dream fueled by day old pizza and he'd wake up on the floor of the Buy More break room or in bed with Alex. He pinched himself, but nothing happened. This was real.

Hank stood up, having situated Evan in the most comfortable position on the couch in the front room. "I should really take him back to the Hamptons. I have better medical equipment there and he'd be more comfortable in his own bed." Hank was right; Evan was too tall for the couch and his feet were sticking over the edge of the armrest on the couch.

"Wait," Morgan began quickly, as Hank fingered the car keys he had found in Evan's pocket. "You're just going to leave?"

"We're done," Hank pointed out. "You found Mozzie. Hardison's going to be fine in a couple weeks. And, honestly, I don't want any of you around my brother ever again."

"That's a little harsh," Morgan muttered. But, at the same time, he understood where Hank was coming from. Up to this point, Hank and Evan had been living a relatively normal life, but this adventure had left Evan injured, something that Morgan doubted had ever happened to the two brothers. Well, that's the life of a spy and if Hank couldn't handle it, then that was his choice.

Hank glanced back at his unconscious brother. "Surely, you understand why I don't want you around. I can't risk Evan getting more hurt."

"I know. We'll miss you guys, though. It was fun while it lasted," Morgan observed, holding his hand out.

Nodding, Hank shook the shorter man's hand. "I'm glad that Mozzie is back and I wish you the best of luck in bringing Sid down, but I'm going to leave."

"Wouldn't it be best if Evan stayed overnight before you moved him?" Nate asked, glancing at Evan's face, taking in the pallor.

"No, he'll be fine. He'd really be better off back in the Hamptons where I have everything I need to make sure his injuries aren't life-threatening. Um, if someone could help me take him to the car?" Hank asked, realizing that he couldn't lift his younger brother alone; Evan had grown far too much.

Elliot came and gently helped Hank carry Evan out to the Saab. They laid Evan down in the back seat and Hank carefully buckled him in. He turned to Elliot. "Thank you for helping me."

"No, thank you for helping us. I'm sorry about Evan, though. I hope he heals quickly."

Hank nodded. "Goodbye." It was over. The whole crazy adventure was over and he would never have to see these men again. Hank wondered if, once Evan was better, he'd be able to laugh about what happened, joke about Evan's failure at being a spy. He wondered if he'd ever see what Neal or Chuck or Elliot were up to. Probably not. This was over and Hank was never going back.


	16. Chapter 16

**I actually am still alive. So, uh, sorry about last Tuesday. I ended up having surgery that day, so I've been out of commission for a while. I'm sure you don't really want to here my excuses... But, I'm back with the last chapter. So, after way too long, here 'tis.**

* * *

"Honestly, Hank, I can't drive if you keep staring at me like that. It's going to distract me, we're going to get in a crash, I'm going to die, and my last words are probably going to be something totally awful like 'Curse you, Hank Lawson, for killing off the most genius CFO to ever be born' or 'If only my idiot brother had looked at the road or his phone or anything other than me.'"

Hank gave his younger brother a weird look. "That's a lot of words you're hoping to get out before you die. I don't think you'd be able to say all that. I would suggest shortening your final words to something more succinct. For example, 'Danger!' works perfectly well."

Evan rolled his eyes, but didn't comment. Instead, he softly said, "You know, I'm totally fine with this."

"With what?"

Evan risked looking away from the road to give his brother a knowing look. It had been a month since his run in with Sidney Winters and he barely even thought about it. Well, no, that was an outright lie. But, the nightmares were becoming less frequent, so that was a definite plus. Evan suspected that Hank knew he continued to have nightmares and that that knowledge was what was spurring on the older brother protective mode that Hank was officially stuck in.

Now, the Leverage team had invited everyone involved in the search for Mozzie to dinner at the bar they worked above. A celebration, of sorts. Ever since Evan had accepted the invite for the two of them, Hank had been shooting him concerned looks. "With the dinner," Evan expounded.

Hank laughed, although Evan could tell it was slightly forced. "I know how much you like food; of course you're excited about the dinner."

"It's not going to spark any bad memories or anything. I think I'll be able to handle it. Besides, these are the good guys. You, Neal, Nate, Chuck, and Elliot rescued me. I mean, I wasn't conscious to see it happen, but Mozzie seems a reliable source. He was there."

Half-shrugging, Hank turned to examine the cars they were passing by. Evan was driving too fast, Hank decided. He silently reminded himself never to let his brother drive his car; not after it had been so recently fixed. The mechanic Hank had taken his Saab to had questioned why the car had been hotwired and he had been forced to make up some lie about it being stolen, but then recovered by the police. Hank still wasn't sure that the man had believed him, but his car was fixed and that was what really mattered.

In way too short of a time, the two brothers arrived at the bar in Boston, Evan quickly parking the car. "This is a spot that requires a permit," Hank pointed out, gesturing at the sign that Evan had parked beside.

"Don't worry about it," Evan responded, waving his brother away. Hank still, occasionally, insisted that Evan needed help walking, but Evan hadn't even hurt his legs or anything, so he just chalked it up to Hank overdoing the older brother role. "Hardison said he'd waive whatever fines we acquired."

"Isn't that illegal?"

Evan shrugged, making his way to the door of the bar. "I'm pretty sure it is, but I'm also pretty sure that I don't care. Unless you really want to pay a fine…" Evan trailed off as he entered the bar, a wave of laughter welcoming him into the establishment. He stood there for a moment, Hank slightly behind him, merely taking in the warmth and joy.

In the far corner, Chuck and Morgan were trying to balance spoons on their noses. Sarah was seated next to Chuck and she quickly leaned over and flicked Chuck's spoon off of his nose. The curly-haired spy cried out in indignation as Morgan pumped his arms into the air, declaring himself the winner. The trio was laughing and even grumpy old Casey cracked a smile at the victory dance Morgan had broken into.

At the table next to them, Hardison was busy regaling a tale about the time that he had allegedly managed to break into the White House. Parker was laughing and Elliot was poking holes in Hardison's story, proving that the hacker had not managed a break in that outrageous. Beside the three friends, Nate and Sophie were talking to each other quietly, their voices a soft murmur covered by the laughter from the other tables.

Neal and Mozzie were seated at a table that had been pushed up to the Leverage team's table. Mozzie seemed to be attempting to convince Neal of something, but, based off of the playful look in Neal's eyes, Neal was not falling for whatever conspiracy theory the short man had "discovered." Neal glanced up from the conversation, catching sight of the Lawson brothers standing at the difference. "Hank! Evan!" he called out, waving them over. "We saved you some seats.

After Hank and Evan had sat down across from Neal and Mozzie, Neal continued, "We almost weren't sure if you were coming."

"I RSVP'd with, uh, Hardison, I think it was," Evan explained.

"I guess he didn't feel it necessary to pass that information on to me," Neal muttered. "We just ordered pizza. Are you guys okay with pepperoni?"

"Sounds great," Evan quickly agreed. He hadn't realized how hungry he was on the drive to Boston, but now that he was seated at a table, his stomach did not hesitate to make its presence known. "I'm starving. Hank wasn't willing to stop and grab burgers on the way over."

"We're eating dinner here," Hank pointed out. "You would have been full by the time we arrived."

Evan shook his head emphatically. "Never doubt the stomach of Evan Lawson. You'd be surprised what I could manage to get down."

"How have you guys been?" Neal asked, trying to start up some semblance of a conversation until the pizza arrived.

"Oh, y'know, the nightmares have started to slow down, so fine. You?" Evan responded, playing down the nights he had woken up in a cold sweat, frantically trying to get a grip on reality. Sid Winters haunted his dreams, morphing average dreams of women and beaches into tragedies with sharp belt buckles and biting words. Evan's theory had always been that faking generally led to the real thing, so if he pretended to be fine, eventually the lie would become the truth. So far, it hadn't worked out wonderfully, but Evan was considering this whole Winters episode a trial run of the theory anyway.

Mozzie gave Evan a sorry look. "I wish I could have done something…" He trailed off, not sure how to end his sentence.

Evan shrugged. "What could you have done? Probably nothing. Anyway, I'm over it."

Neal's eyes drifted to the scar on Evan's cheek. "If you want, I know a really good plastic surgeon. I'm sure that she would do anything you needed for free, if you mentioned my name."

"Why would she be so accommodating?" Evan asked. "Is she some sort of criminal, too? Do you have dirt on her?"

Neal laughed. "No, she's just an old friend. But, seriously, if you need anything, I can give you her information."

"Nah, its fine. Chicks dig scars."

Hank frowned and looked as if he was about to say something, but his comment was lost as a pizza delivery guy entered the bar. "Caffrey?" he called out, holding the pizza boxes aloft. As Neal went to go pay the pizza guy, Hank turned to his little brother. "We could leave," he suggested softly. "I can say I have a client, if you want to go."

"No, Hank. I'm going to do this and it's going to be okay. I don't understand why you can't seem to comprehend that. These are our friends." Evan sat back, leaning against his chair. "Besides, it's not as if Sid is going to waltz right in."

"You don't know that," Hank hissed.

"I bet I can find out." Evan turned away from his brother and shouted to the table next to them. "Hey, Hardison! What ended up happening to our dear friend, Sidney Winters?"

Hardison grinned, stopping his story halfway through, promising Elliot and Parker that he'd finish the tall tale later. Elliot rolled his eyes, but allowed Hardison to address Evan's question. "It turns out that Sidney Winters has an unhealthy obsession with everything Disney."

"Disney?" Evan queried. "That doesn't sound like an evil thing to be obsessed with. I thought bad guys like Sid would be interested in torture devices and electrocution."

"Which is a torture device," Hank pointed out.

Hardison ignored the brothers' outbursts and continued, "So, it was pretty easy to set up this fake contest that provided the winner with a luxury Disney cruise for two that would take them from Florida to a couple islands in the Caribbean. It also provided two free tickets to Disneyworld. Winters entered into the contest and won with a little help from yours truly. He and Phyllis O'Brien, his girlfriend, if you recall, immediately accepted those tickets. After that, it was quite easy to send them to a new destination.

"Elliot picked them up from their home as the chauffeur that was part of the prize. He drove them to the airport. Unfortunately for them, Sid was stopped at the baggage check. He was discovered to be carrying nearly a million dollars. All counterfeit. He and Phyllis were arrested immediately. And Sid's mother, a Mary Winters, was also arrested. Her fingerprints were found all over the machine that he been used to counterfeit the money. They aren't getting out for a long time."

Evan grinned. "That's legit, but how did you manage to get the money in Sid's suitcase? Wouldn't he have noticed?"

"That was Parker's job," Hardison said, grinning. "The limousine Elliot used to pick up Sid and Phyllis had a hollowed out backseat that led straight to the trunk. Parker was able to hide back there and stuff the fake cash in the suitcase. Since Elliot was the only one touching the luggage, the two criminals never knew that Parker was back there.

Hank nodded, taking a sip from his water. "I have to admit, that was pretty ingenious. All of it."

"Yeah, well, we're just glad that Sid is behind bars. When the police ended up searching his possessions, including that boat, they discovered all the makings for the bomb they probably wanted Mozzie here to construct. Not only is he doing time for counterfeiting, but terrorism. And Phyllis and his mother were sent to jail as his accomplices," Hardison further explained. "We won't be seeing him around ever again."

"So, that's it?" Evan asked, grabbing for a slice of pizza.

"That's it."

The group fell into a comfortable silence, until Morgan spoke up. "You know what's strange? If we started shipping Sid and Phyllis as a couple, their ship name would be Syphilis. How sucky would that be?" Everyone stared at Morgan until he shrugged uncomfortably. "Just pointing it out."

With a snort of laughter, Evan turned back to his pizza. It was great to be surrounded by people that he knew cared for him, by new friends. "We should do this more often," he said. "Just all of us hanging out and doing stuff."

Neal agreed, "Yeah, next time Moz and I need a couple extra people for a con, we're definitely calling on you guys."

"No, no, nothing illegal for us," Hank broke in quickly. "We've had our fill of cons."

"Come on, being illegal is fun," Parker pointed out.

"How about bowling? Can we all settle on bowling?" Chuck suggested.

"Only if there's food," was Morgan's requirement.

"And music," Hardison threw in.

Chuck held his hands up to forestall any further stipulations. "Okay, okay. Sarah and I will plan something. It'll be fun."

"To fun!" Morgan toasted, his soda sloshing out of the glass he held aloft.

Everyone else raised their glasses. "To fun!"


End file.
